


Feasting on Dreams, Volume Three: The White Griffon

by analect



Series: Feasting on Dreams [3]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, F/M, Fantasy, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-03
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:58:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 118,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/analect/pseuds/analect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the search for the Sacred Ashes begins, Merien Tabris shoulders the ghosts of her past, and addresses what it means to be a Grey Warden. The realities of life on the road, and her uneasy leadership, don't help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: _Not mine, don't own._  
>  A/N: This is the third installment of Feasting on Dreams; a multi-volume City Elf-centric playthrough story. We rejoin Merien Tabris and her companions as - with Connor freed of demonic possession and the support of the Circle Tower secured - they head towards Denerim to begin their search for the Sacred Ashes.
> 
> Each volume of Feasting on Dreams stands more or less alone, but feel free to read the whole thing should you desire. You can find all my fics on AO3, or at [FF.net](http://www.fanfiction.net/u/2552318/) or my [Dreamwidth blog](http://analect.dreamwidth.org/2641.html). Thanks for reading!

Feasting on Dreams: The Book of Merien Tabris

 **  
VOL. 3: THE WHITE GRIFFON   
**

\----------------------------------------------------------------

I know how men in exile feed on dreams of hope.  
~ Aeschylus, _Agamemnon_

\----------------------------------------------------------------

 **CHAPTER ONE**

 

The rain started the day after we left Redcliffe. Initially, we covered a reasonable amount of ground, striking for the Imperial Highway and making good time. Everyone seemed in good spirits—although I noticed Morrigan was suspiciously quiet—and it was, circumstances notwithstanding, actually rather pleasant to be walking on flat, solid ground, with the sun on our backs and no clouds in the sky.

Of course, I wasn’t relishing heading to Denerim at all. The thoughts that had been plaguing me since the decision—if it could be called that—had been made returned with a vengeance, thudding through my head to the rhythm of our foot-beats. I kept them to myself, and tried to think instead of the other impossibilities; finding the Dalish, petitioning the dwarves… all those things that still somehow seemed like myths and euphemisms, and couldn’t possibly be real.

The group dynamic had changed a bit since the last time we’d been on the road. I wondered, briefly, whether it was the addition of Wynne, or the fighting we’d seen that had changed us… and Redcliffe _had_ changed things. The Tower had, too. We were, all of us, more keenly aware of each other—a team, I supposed. Each of the people with me I had entrusted with my life, and each of them I had stood beside with a blade in my hand, ready to defend them.

There were bonds there, even if we didn’t talk about them… even if we still didn’t really know each other. It was a strange, alien feeling.

All the same, we rubbed along well enough. Leliana sang a few verses of an Orlesian ballad about a mighty warrior who fell in love with an enchanted princess and had to battle a sea monster for her hand. I didn’t understand all the words, but it was very pretty… even if Sten professed to think the song was about vegetables. He was talking more, I noticed, though only in relation to how silent he’d been before.

Wynne chipped in gamely with the banter, and within the first few hours she was already slotting into the role of mother hen, alternately chiding, encouraging and teasing her charges, the same way it was easy to imagine her dealing with apprentices. Certainly, she seemed to have no trouble keeping up, though it didn’t take too keen an eye to spot that she wasn’t carrying all her own gear. Alistair seemed able to manage, though, so I didn’t say anything.

It was nice, in a way, to be back on the Highway. The cracked, white ribs of the pointed Tevinter arches that framed the road rose up against the bright sky, and with Redcliffe’s gritty, bare cliffs behind us, by mid-afternoon we were seeing more greens and browns in the land, with stretches of fields and strips of woodland. Everything seemed peaceful enough: no noticeable signs of strife or disaster… yet. It was quiet, though, and there were very few travellers on the road. We saw only three baggage carts, and a merchant’s caravan about a half a mile ahead. I wondered whether refugees were still flooding north from the Wilds, and whether Lothering still held firm, but it didn’t seem right to stain the day with such dark thoughts, so I said nothing.

That night saw us camping near to the road, in the shelter of a clutch of trees. The mood was buoyant, though perhaps flimsily so, held together with the glue of jokes and repetitions that we’d come to depend upon. Alistair’s terrible cooking, Maethor’s habit of bringing half of something back from his latest forage in a hedgerow, Sten’s taciturn impassiveness… we needed those little hooks to hang our sense of normalcy on, I supposed. And there _was_ genuine warmth there now, putting down roots in the narrowest of cracks.

Darkness fell, and we rested. There was a campfire, and a bowl of something hot and basically edible, and it felt practically luxurious to have proper tents and bedding and… and I almost managed to forget the weight hanging above me, pressing down with an inexorable threat.

We slept, and I dreamed. There were walls of red rock, teeming with the black bodies of darkspawn—more than could ever be counted, let alone defeated—and there were flames and thick, choking fumes and the taste of blood, like dark, bitter metal, and the roaring in ears that were both mine and not mine. Always, the shrieking keening of another mind, another _thing_ , clawing at me and trying to pull me into it, away from thoughts and feelings, until there was nothing left but the rage and the violence and the blood….

I woke with a start, fingers scrabbling for the sword that lay, sheathed, beside my bedroll. I’d slept in my shirt and breeches, blanket wound around me against the incipient chill, but now everything felt too tight, too confining, too _hot_ … and I forgot that I was in a tent. I started to panic, then recollected myself, left the sword where it was, and blundered out from the canvas and into the cool embrace of the night.

The fire had been banked down, slumbering to embers as we rested. Maethor lay in his customary position before it, and he looked up sleepily at me, before giving a half-hearted wag of his tail and settling back down. I breathed slowly, deeply, and watched the sulky flames swell beneath the mantle of ash that crazed the wood. The air was clammy on my skin, the sky full with moon and stars and clouds, and the promise of a good few hours to go before dawn.

“You feel it more now, right?”

I jumped, startled. I hadn’t noticed Alistair standing at the edge of the trees, a little way from the tents. Like me, he was sleep-rumpled, in breeches and shirt, hollow-eyed and trying to look nonchalant.

For a moment, outlined like that by the fire’s dim glow, he made me think of Duncan, the way I’d seen him when I woke in the night on the ride down from Denerim. I’d thought he was guarding me, standing watch over us… not realising that the voices of demons kept him from his sleep.

I nodded weakly. “Mm. The… thing. It’s, um…. Yeah.”

 _Dreams_. They clawed at everything, didn’t they? Ate away a person, until even the things you thought you were holding safe, your most precious memories and hopes, turned against you and made you their hostage.

I blinked, rubbing the heel of my palm across my forehead. Alistair loosed a short, terse sigh.

“Yes. I know what you mean.”

Was it the same for all of us? I wondered whether every Grey Warden experienced the same sights, the same sounds and smells, or if the dreams had different forms. I didn’t really want to know, I supposed… didn’t really want to dwell on it, or reach for the right words to frame the questions.

Instead, I ambled over to where he stood, and exchanged the ashy, smoky smell of the fire for that of tree bark and sap. I still wasn’t used to all this open countryside; I missed the security of walls and buildings, cobbles under my feet and washing lines criss-crossing above my head, running from tenement to tenement.

“It is supposed to be worse for those who Join in a Blight,” Alistair said, which wasn’t really very comforting.

He leaned back against a tree trunk, crossed his arms, and looked at me with lop-sided geniality.

“After my Joining, when the dreams first started, I used to yell out in my sleep.” He grinned sheepishly. “Well, I say yell… I screamed like a little girl.”

He was trying to cheer me up, I gathered, and it worked, to an extent. Alistair shook his head as he stared into some distant memory.

“Next morning, Duncan said he’d thought I had someone in my room. Not embarrassing at all. Obviously.”

I laughed, all the more at the faint blush rising on his cheekbones. His grin widened, and he looked at me, sharing the mirth. Loss still stained his eyes at the mention of his mentor’s name, but he was able to talk about him—and that was good, I supposed.

“Well,” I said lightly, “can’t say I’ve heard _that_ … but I’ll be listening out now. It’ll give everyone something to gossip over, at least.”

Alistair rolled his eyes, and I sniggered, though the giggles faded after a moment.

“Um. _I_ don’t… do I?” I asked. “Yell in my sleep? I mean, I haven’t—”

“You don’t, no.” He smirked. “Not that I’ve heard, anyway.”

“Ah. Right. Good.”

My turn to blush a little. He grinned again, and I shook my head incredulously. So hard to believe that this was where my life was now—these small, grubby, makeshift camps, one step away from disaster and oblivion, and all in the company of humans and war.

 **  
_~o~O~o~_   
**

The morning came, we pulled up camp, and by the time the sun had risen fully, we were back on the Highway. The sky was not as blue, and the clouds were decidedly greyer. The rain started at about mid-morning, and it drummed methodically against the stones, as repetitious as it was determined. It rained all day, and it got everywhere. Every nook, cranny, fold, crease or hollow ended up wet, from the gap between the neck of my jerkin and the straps of my pack, to the water that made its way into the tops of my boots, and seeped down to soak my feet.

Raindrops gathered on my eyelashes and the end of my nose, and a thin film of moisture slicked my face. I got fed up with wiping it away, and settled for the mild stinging of it in my eyes every few times I blinked.

Even Maethor was subdued by the weather. He padded along at the head of the group, as ever, ears flat to his skull and brindled coat sodden, and didn’t dignify the few birds we saw huddled in the trees with a bark, or even the slightest growl.

Around mid-afternoon, the view to the left of the Highway flattened out a bit, and it was possible to make out the very tip of the Circle Tower’s spire in the distance, past the endless fields and rocky outcrops. I noticed Wynne glance towards it more than once… as did Morrigan.

There was a strange look on her face, and I wondered about it, though I said nothing. Was she curious about the Tower? Did it unnerve her? I knew the templars and magi we’d brought back to Redcliffe had not ill-treated her, despite the tension that had lingered even after the ritual to free Connor was completed. It hadn’t been the time or place to start the accusations of apostasy—too much exhaustion and chaos, plus my rather rash statement of the Grey Wardens’ protection—but I _had_ seen her spend quite a lot of time with Enchanter Salter. Deep in conversation, or so it had seemed. I’d wondered then what she hoped to gain from the man, but I wasn’t sure whether it was wise to even contemplate asking.

The rain kept on teeming down, and I wiped the back of my hand across my face, adjusting the weight of my pack on tired, sore shoulders. Alistair whistled tunelessly between his teeth, a counterpoint to the damp, sloshy rhythm of feet on the stone, each bar ticked off by the metallic tap of Morrigan’s staff. After a little while, the Tower’s spire dipped away behind the rolling lines of trees, and didn’t come out again for half an hour or so, by which time it was slightly more distant.

Wynne sighed, and I glanced at her in silent question. It wasn’t that I thought her age would be a problem; back home, our elders were oak-tough, hammered on the anvil of years and bound up with sinew and determination. My father was such a man and, up until the day I left the alienage, I’d believed he could do anything, meet any challenge head-on and unflinching.

All the same, the mage was an unknown quantity. She’d been kind to me at Ostagar—and kind to Alistair, I gathered, although I caught myself wondering whether they had indeed met there, or had known each other already—and she’d shown her mettle at the Tower, but a certain wariness lingered. I was, I suppose, uneasy at how much I wanted to trust her, and how much I still wanted to shy from the responsibilities Fate had left me with… unlikelier than ever though it now was that we would find any simple answers to anything.

We’d exhaust ourselves on this paper-chase, and the horde would still be moving—Maker only knew where, or how fast—and Arl Eamon would probably be dead anyway by the time we returned. As for the other treaties… well, I doubted we would be fortunate enough to find ourselves taken seriously. The damage wrought by Uldred’s coup at the Tower had left the Circle weak and disadvantaged—and that in itself was yet another worry. Sure, we’d been lucky to secure the First Enchanter’s support (and, nominally, that of Knight-Commander Greagoir), but would those ravaged remnants of the Magi really help? I wasn’t even sure how many mages we’d be able to count on. Wynne’s little group of survivors had numbered a couple of dozen, at most, and there were precious few others who’d escaped the carnage.

It occurred to me then, as I trudged on in the relentless rain, listening to Leliana sneeze in a delicate, ladylike manner, that I hadn’t the faintest idea of what assembling an army meant. Securing a promise from a man in robes was one thing, but how did the mages Irving had pledged actually go from being frightened people, cowering in a barricaded dormitory, to an organised force, ready to face the horde? Would it even come to that? I didn’t know. Maybe everything would end up being politics, and the very fact that the Grey Wardens had allies to call on at all would force Loghain to recognise the Blight’s threat, and… then what? We’d join forces and everything would be fine? Ferelden’s army had fallen to the darkspawn once before.

I frowned into the midst of my fuzzy, muddle-headed thoughts, and every footstep grew a little heavier.

 **  
_~o~O~o~_   
**

We broke for camp reasonably early, before the dusk was properly settled in. It was still raining. Alistair tried to lighten the mood by cheerfully proclaiming that we’d shaved a day off the journey through good pacing and a clear route, but was met with a soggy lack of enthusiasm.

Still, the novelty hadn’t worn off the good tents for me, even if they were a bit damp… although the value of having proper tinderboxes was a bit diminished when there was no dry wood to be found. We ended up with a small squib of a campfire that Morrigan kick-started into life, shortly before gathering up her things and—muttering under her breath—stalking off to her own patch of the waterlogged little clearing that was home for the night.

The general feeling of downhearted fatigue wasn’t improved by the fact that it was Alistair’s turn to cook and, despite the useful little pouches of herbs and seasonings we’d been given, he still managed to make something that tasted like ditchwater… albeit _flavoured_ ditchwater.

However, as dusk started to roll in over the farmlands and copses, and the Imperial Highway glimmered white like the great broken ribcage of some stranded beast, the rain finally stopped. It left the land to grow chilled and boggy, and I thought of the Korcari Wilds, and all the terrible, cold, barbarian strangeness of the south.

Huddled in front of the fire, leather cloak wrapped around me, I counted off the days until we reached Denerim, and wished that I could stop thinking about it. Unfortunately, camp afforded little to distract me. Sten, like Morrigan, preferred his own company, and had already retired to his tent. On the other side of the fire, Leliana had buttonholed Alistair, and it sounded as if she was trying to pry a discussion about religion out of him. From the dribs and drabs I overheard—not that I was eavesdropping, naturally—it seemed his words at the Tower had stayed with her… the whole issue of forgiveness versus the sword of mercy.

“But the Chantry accepts all who are genuinely contrite,” she protested, “whatever their crimes. Just as the Maker’s love embraces us, so we are given the chance to redeem ourselves, if we truly wish it.”

“Er….” Alistair managed, apparently floundering horribly as he reached for a middle ground between offending her and simply disagreeing. “Not the one I’m familiar with. Not… um… not really.”

“But don’t you think—”

I smiled to myself, quietly amused. Maethor lay at my feet, and he groaned softly as I reached down to tickle his ears. A shadow fell across my shoulder, and I glanced up as Wynne came to settle herself before the fire’s paltry warmth. She winced as she lowered herself onto the dead log we’d hauled up from the copse for seating—half-rotten, damp, and full of woodlice, but still better than sitting in the mud—and gave me a nod.

“Oh, it’s been a long day. Rest… rest is definitely welcome.”

“Are you all right?” I asked, stopping just short of adding the word ‘elder’ on the end of the question, more from habit than respect.

My thoughts had been elsewhere and, for a moment, Wynne’s face had the look of someone else’s in the dimness.

She smiled indulgently at me. “Yes, of course. I am just a little… weary. As you may have noticed, I’m no spring chicken.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” I said diplomatically, and she chuckled.

“Thank you, dear. You’re very kind.”

I grinned, aware of the harder note in her voice, perhaps even reminded a little of that teak-boned humour we had back home.

“Wynne?”

“Hmm?”

“I was wondering something,” I said, faintly surprised at myself for asking the question—even though she’d invited it by coming to sit near me, striking up those first few words of friendly politeness.

“Which would be…?”

“Why didn’t you want to stay at the Tower?”

That sharp, clear gaze darted from me as I looked at her, and I watched the way her eyes seemed to follow the sluggish, sullen movements of our paltry little fire. Wynne folded her hands in her lap, fingers tightly interlinked, the deep red of her robes a warm flash beneath the heavy, oiled leather cloak. Tiny flickers of gold embroidery at her wrists caught the light.

“The Circle is in good hands,” she said evenly, staring into the fire. “Irving knows what to do and he doesn’t need me underfoot. _You_ , on the other hand, need all the help you can get.”

I snorted. “You’re not wrong there.”

“Indeed. If, when this is all over, I am still standing… then, perhaps, I will return. But, for now, I will support those that battle the darkspawn. I do feel I left things unfinished in Ostagar. There is so much left to do, and I would be part of it.”

The hard angles of her face, planed by time and toughened by both sorrow and an undeniable resolve, comforted me in a slightly odd way. It seemed reassuring, I supposed, to know that I had an ally so staunch and unshakeable… although she _was_ still a mage. That didn’t unnerve me as much as it once had, probably because I now owed my life to magic more times over than I’d wish to count, but it did leave a peculiar barrier between us.

Later, when time, experience, and the kinds of books I’d never even known existed back home gave me a firmer understanding of magic as a natural force in the world, I wouldn’t feel so isolated by it. I would, eventually, come to compare the condition of mages to that of my people—set apart by birth and nature, not intent—and I would learn not to fear it.

At the time, however, although Wynne was far less ornery than Morrigan, I still regarded her with a similar wariness… just in case flames started to shoot from her fingertips without warning.

I nodded slowly. “Well, your help is certainly appreciated. I… suppose I just wanted to make sure it was what you really wanted.”

Wynne gave a short, dry laugh, and shot me an acerbic look.

“No, of course I don’t. I’m old and unsure of what I’m doing. Actually, I’d rather be in a warm chair in the sun, being served pudding, or some other easily digestible food.”

I blinked. “Er… I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean it like—”

Her thin lips curled into a gentle, restrained smile that, despite its smallness, softened her face beyond all measure, and creased the corners of those sharp blue eyes.

“I know, dear. I was just teasing. The ability to laugh at myself is something I developed too late in life. But, to allay your fears, yes, I am sure this is what I want.”

“Oh.” I returned the smile, mine one of relief and wry amusement as, once more, Wynne surprised me. “Well… good. I’m glad.”

“Can I ask _you_ a question now?”

I shrugged. “Fair’s fair.”

The fire grumbled gently to itself, and Maethor rolled over, the weight of him pressing down on my foot. Leliana was still beating Alistair about the head with questions of theology and, overhead, dark ruffles of cloud played against the dim sky. It would an unsettled night, with the chance of a storm come tomorrow.

“Before the Circle Tower,” Wynne said slowly, as if she was weighing the words out carefully, “had you encountered abominations?”

I shook my head, my mind skipping nimbly away from the memories, though not quickly enough to miss recollecting the mess of boiling flesh, the corruption… the demon-possessed Uldred-creature, with its shiny black spider-eyes and vile, putrescent form.

“No. No, I hadn’t.”

“Hmm. Were you afraid?”

I glanced incredulously at Wynne, and her mouth twitched.

“Well,” she said, as if it was perfectly plausible, “you are younger than I, and your nerves yet have some steel in them.”

I choked down a disbelieving snort.

“Don’t know about _that_. Of course I was scared. Maker, first time I saw darkspawn, I was so frightened I pi— practically fainted,” I corrected hurriedly, clearing my throat. “The abominations were…. Well, yes. I was afraid. But we couldn’t just walk away, could we?”

Wynne nodded. “True. The first time I saw an abomination, my blood turned to ice. It was months before the nightmares stopped. It… was the knowledge that I could easily become one of them that frightened me the most.”

A small silence pooled around the words, and I got the feeling I’d been given a glimpse at a truth, if not exactly hidden, then subtly guarded. Beyond the fire, Alistair appeared to be explaining to Leliana how little of monastery life, in his experience, had actually been about religion. Kitchens, pot-washing, and the legend of the fearsome termagant known as Cook seemed to be involved.

“But,” I said, after a moment’s consideration, “it’s that knowledge that drives you to be cautious, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Wynne agreed. “One slip… all it takes is one slip, and everything you are is simply gone… replaced by madness. And there is no turning back. Or at least that’s what they say.”

“Well, that’s not necessarily true.” I frowned. “Is it? I mean, Connor was cured… freed. Whatever the right term is. I know his possession was voluntary, but—”

“True, although I fear that is the exception to the rule.”

My frown deepened. “Then… who decided the only way to cure an abomination is death? Is that really what mages believe, or what the Chantry says? Because the Circle is under the Chantry’s control, right?”

Wynne gave me an odd, cagey look. “I prefer to think of it a mutual partnership, but yes, you could say that. Many do,” she added ruefully. “To answer your question, it is… generally accepted wisdom. You know that, with power, comes responsibility, and it is the responsibility of mages to ensure our gifts are safeguarded. Sometimes even from ourselves.”

She was beginning to sound cryptic, and I didn’t fully understand. I could feel the loose threads of a wider debate floating just beyond my grasp, and I was a little afraid of tugging on them.

I didn’t trust magic—or mages, come to that, although I felt more comfortable around Wynne than I did Morrigan—yet I had begun to realise not just how much we needed the kind of help they could offer, but how much my own reluctance stemmed from ignorance. It is an uncomfortable thing, to confront how blinkered you have been, how sheltered and proud of your own narrow-mindedness.

“I think,” I said slowly, propping my chin on my folded hands and leaning forwards, nearer the warmth of the fire. “I think… that some mages must want to be free. I mean, all shut up like that in the tower? It’s a prison, however comfortable it is.”

“Sometimes,” Wynne said, after a moment, “the prison is only in your own mind. What happened at the Circle… do you think it would have been better if all those mages were living free, left to their own devices?”

I started to shake my head, then wondered if I was responding too quickly. True, without supervision and community, those whom demons preyed upon might turn and wreak havoc before anyone even realised something was wrong. Even if it was imperfect, the Circle’s existence was a vital safety measure. Yet, if there was no Circle, there would have been nothing for Uldred to seek power over… except other people, and the desire to do _that_ was not confined simply to crazed mages.

Did the dangers of housing all that potential and power in one place outweigh the importance of keeping it guarded? I wasn’t sure now. Maybe, I thought, walling those who had magic up together and hiding them away from the world wasn’t the right answer. Just like an alienage, it birthed isolation and hot-housed resentment, along with plenty of other things both good and bad besides. But, on the other hand, it instituted rules and restrictions that benefited everyone… didn’t it?

Or… given what we _had_ seen at Kinloch Hold, perhaps measures like the Harrowing provided a false sense of security, and served to leave standing only the mages strong enough to want more power.

I didn’t know. It all seemed horribly complicated, and my head was starting to hurt.

“However,” Wynne said, ostensibly almost to herself, as she stared thoughtfully into the fire, “of late I have begun to wonder if… if there is any way an abomination can be… cured. Or if a mage could be so possessed and still retain their sanity. Their humanity.”

I watched her gaze into the flames, and wondered what she was really thinking about… what this truly connected to, or whether it was some kind of test.

“But… if a mage retains their humanity,” I said, grasping tentatively at the words as I struggled to tether them to concepts that were still a little nebulous for me, “then they’re not really an abomination, are they? Not truly.”

Wynne seemed to perk up at that. Her eyes narrowed, as if she was seizing onto an important thought, and she nodded.

“Yes… it is madness and cruelty that define abominations. If those are lacking, if the mage remembers the person they truly are, then… then they are not an abomination.” She nodded again, and looked at me, blue eyes glittering with some new realisation. “Yes. That is certainly another way of looking at it.”

“Right.” I smiled uneasily, fairly sure that I’d just been the sounding board for some rarefied theory I wouldn’t have understood even if she’d explained it to me with diagrams drawn in the dirt. “Well, you’ve certainly given me a lot to think about. That’s very… interesting.”

We didn’t discuss it further, though, and instead settled back to watch Leliana trying to get Alistair to admit that he did, after all, miss the peace and serenity of the cloister. Eventually, he broke into an anecdote about pillow fights and the traditional abbey sport of trying to hang the smallest initiate from the bell tower ropes (the trick—aside from making sure _you_ were not the smallest initiate to start with—was apparently in catching the blighter), and she gave up, proclaiming disbelief and irritation.

 **  
_~o~O~o~_   
**

The following two days repeated much the same as the first. The storm never did break, though the rain rumbled on. We left all traces of Redcliffe and Lake Calenhad behind us, following the Highway’s unceasing, unchanging line as it ploughed a stone furrow through the fertile ground. We saw more traffic, too: the occasional merchant’s ox- or mule-cart, maybe a family of smallholders with furniture and children piled up on a flat wagon. It wasn’t the desperate flooding of refugees we’d seen around Lothering, which I supposed was encouraging. It meant the people here hadn’t had cause to flee… or, perhaps, that there’d be no one left to do so. I tried to ignore those thoughts, and we just plodded on, doing our best to ignore the odd looks we got.

“We’ll need to branch off tomorrow,” Alistair said when we broke for camp, hunched down in front of the fire with the map Bann Teagan had given us spread out carefully across his knees.

It was a more businesslike affair than the huge, beautifully drawn one in the arl’s privy chamber; thick, tough parchment and plain, dark ink… and I still didn’t really understand how to read it. I sat nearby and watched his finger trace along the routes, and I nodded and made small noises of agreement when he talked about skirting the forest on our way north, and searching for the elusive wild elves.

“The West Road’s the quickest route,” he said thoughtfully, tapping the map. “But if we cross the Drakon here, and skirt the north edge of the Southrons, we can see how the forest lies, maybe start getting word to some of the elven clans… and still make good time to Denerim.”

“Mm,” I said, hoping a non-committal grunt would hide the fact I hadn’t really got a clue what he was talking about.

“Not that I know how we’re supposed to go about actually finding the Dalish.” Alistair sighed, dropped his palm flat to the map, and gave me a weary look. “Any ideas?”

I blinked. “Er, no. I mean, I’ve heard of people running off to find them, but most just showed up again a few days later, cold, hungry, and embarrassed. The rest… I don’t know. Maybe the Dalish don’t even accept outsiders. I’m not sure I ever even believed they really existed, though there are… stories.”

He nodded ruefully. “The ones about them attacking travellers on the road and killing everyone? Mm.”

I frowned, recalling something Soris’ friend Taeodor had mentioned the day of my wedding, about how Alarith, our storekeeper, had been rescued by Dalish on his way to Denerim. He’d never spoken of it in my hearing, but then Alarith rarely spoke of the story at all, unless someone got a few jars of ale down him first. He was an escaped slave, people said: the sole survivor of a chaotic, desperate flight. I wasn’t sure I believed it, when he’d always seemed such a cheerful, generous soul. There was no mark of dark suffering on him, I’d thought. I hadn’t understood, then, the lengths people would go to in order to bury their pasts.

When we were children, we used to hang around Alarith’s shop in the hopes of being given some treat or scrap of attention, and we’d gossip shamelessly about it. My cousin Andar would boast that he’d seen whip scars on Alarith’s back… we’d even compete to try and sneak glimpses of the brand on his wrist, the mark of an owner our childish stories cast as some pantomime villain of a magister, a blood mage of horrific legend.

If Alarith caught us, he’d laugh and give us pieces of sweetroot to chew, call us hooligans, and then he’d chase us out with the threat of a broom. We would run, laughing, back into the street, the stories forgotten… if they’d ever seemed real to begin with.

I shook myself, coming abruptly back to this damp, muddy camp, and the fire, and Alistair, looking at me expectantly.

So, I was supposed to be the font of knowledge on all things elven, was I? Lovely.

I shrugged. “The hahren always said they were… dangerous. Our elder,” I added, in deference to Alistair’s confused expression. “He keeps the alienage running, deals with the guard… tells our stories. I remember, whenever we asked about the Dalish, Valendrian wouldn’t want to tell us anything. He’d tell the story of Red Crossing, talk about how pride and anger destroyed the Dales… and he’d always end by saying no one even knew if there were any wild elves left anyway. Maybe he believed that. Maybe he just wanted to discourage anyone from running.”

Alistair nodded slowly, and I could see the unasked questions ticking over in his mind. He was curious about life in the alienage, but didn’t seem to know whether it was all right to ask me. I’d seen it back at Redcliffe Castle, in those long, dusty hours while we waited for the Circle mages to be done with Connor, and there was nothing to fill the empty, draughty corridors except talking. He’d asked me about the ring I wore on the chain at my neck; the one I’d so stupidly tried to give to Dwyn, the dwarven veteran, in payment for his standing with the militia, and which he’d tossed back at me as almost worthless. _You can keep your wedding ring, girlie_. Hah… and humiliation had pricked me then, hadn’t it? To realise how insignificant my greatest treasures were, outside of home. But Alistair had tried hard not to offend, to ask as delicately as he knew how what it meant and… who I’d left behind.

I still felt a bit guilty for not really telling him, for brushing the question away with the briefest explanation of traditions and customs that, as I’d made it quite clear, I did not expect him to understand.

The truth would have to come out before we reached Denerim, I supposed.

Alistair cleared his throat and glanced back at the map, brow furrowed. “Well… I guess the easiest thing to do is just look. They must leave some sign of themselves over the forest, and perhaps we can leave word on our way through. I think it’s important we press on to Denerim as fast as we can, if we’re to stand any chance of finding this Brother… Whatsit.”

“Genitivi,” I supplemented absently, thinking partly about the sheer size of the Brecilian Forest, and partly about the spectre of the capital, lurching up in the future before me.

“What do you think?”

“Hm?” I blinked again, still surprised at being asked for an opinion. “I… well, you’re probably right. Though I think we need to be careful where we linger, and how many people know where we’re headed. The road might not even be safe, if this bounty thing is true….”

Alistair snorted. “Oh, yes. I forgot. Criminals now, aren’t we?”

I felt silly for suggesting it, and wrinkled my nose. We smirked about it then, the ridiculous thought that Teyrn Loghain would spare much in the way of time or coin to hunt us down. The edict outlawing the Wardens was, it seemed, a political move, meant to stop the Orlesian reinforcements setting one single foreign foot on Fereldan soil.

Naturally, that was one little bit of naivety I was soon to have knocked out of me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which nothing is as simple as it seems... and Wynne and Morrigan face off.

Less than a week after leaving Redcliffe, we needed to stop to resupply. For me, at least, rationed drinking water was one of the biggest struggles about being on the road. Whatever deprivations we’d suffered in the alienage, we’d had our pumps and standpipes and, disregarding the occasional brownish tint or coppery flavour, the water was fine. It was also free. We could boil and drink it, wash our bodies and our clothes (and plenty of shem laundry, at a bit a bundle) and—in that traditional, fiercely competitive pastime of elven women—clean our homes until the front steps sparkled and the tables were scrubbed smooth. Making do with dirty hands, greasy hair, and a perpetually dry mouth did not come easily to me, and I was grateful when we spotted the first hint of a village.

It wasn’t much of a place, just a blot not even marked on the map, but I had no doubt there would be a well, and fresh water, and—

“Maker’s breath!” Leliana exclaimed, as we drew closer to the settlement. “Look at them all. Those poor people… it’s just like Lothering.”

She was right: the place was crawling with refugees. From the looks of it, they were mainly farmholders and hamlet folk, all clustered around the shabby excuse for a market square—just a few wooden shopfronts with tattered awnings above them, and a small building identifiable as a chantry only by the symbol of the holy flame above its doors. Arguments were breaking out where too many people wanted to barter for too few goods, with too little coin, and the whole place reeked of the combined staleness of desperation and exhaustion.

“Why don’t you all wait here?” Leliana suggested. “I will go and see what I can find out. They must have a well, no?”

“And precious little of anything else, I imagine,” Morrigan said dryly. “We are wasting our time here.”

I watched the scuffle of people in front of the chantry start to throw punches, before one man’s family pulled him away, and another’s wife clung to his arm, weeping.

“We should probably be grateful we have the option to move on,” I said, eyeing the uneasy crowd. “It’s more than these poor sods.”

Leliana slipped me a small, encouraging smile. “I won’t be long.”

She took our stack of empty skins and sauntered off towards the scrum. Wynne murmured something about lending a hand and followed on, leaving me to loiter like a spare part, unsure if I’d do more harm than good if I tried to help. The two women were definitely the least likely of our eclectic little group to draw attention. Redcliffe had seen all of us—with the notable exception of Morrigan, who’d loudly proclaimed not to need charity or change—outfitted with new gear, so at least we looked respectable… in a way. Splinted mail and chain for Alistair and Sten, leathers for me and Leliana, and heavy cloaks all round; even the mages could bundle themselves up and try to pass for normal. Yet, we were still an obvious enough aberration on the road. Armed and armoured adventurers… mercenaries, troublemakers, or worse. It made sense to stay back from the square, and attract as little attention as possible.

Morrigan sighed loudly and, with a complaint about the refugees’ pathetic scurrying, wailing and gnashing of teeth, took herself off to lounge against a wall.

It was a good opportunity to split up and have a breather. In truth, we were probably all glad to get a break from each other. Ten minutes to sneak a quick piss behind the nearest shack, and maybe take the weight off weary, aching feet, was more privacy or luxury than any of us had been used to recently.

I told Maethor to stay quietly behind the houses, and took myself off… alone. It was liberating.

**_~o~O~o~_ **

A little way from the square, in the dogleg of an alleyway formed by two scruffy houses, I was surprised to spot a family of elves. The sight of elven faces filled me with a combination of joy and apprehension, and I made my way over without thinking, skirting past the crowd in front of the chantry.

There were three of them; a man and his wife, and a young girl, her chestnut hair bound in two thick braids. Had I seen them back in the alienage, I’d have thought them wealthy, for their clothes were good quality, if marred by the dust and dirt of travel. The woman had a stomacher sewn from a single piece of good chintz, and her husband’s tunic bore intricate embroidery around the neck.

It stung to see how he looked at me when I caught his eye. The warmth of recognition for another elf came first, but it didn’t last. One glimpse of my armour—and the weapons I couldn’t completely conceal—and his face tightened, his hand dropping protectively to his daughter’s shoulder.

I was reminded of the way the elven messengers and servants had looked at me when I first arrived at Ostagar; how, as soon as I was outfitted with armour and weapons, they wouldn’t meet my eye… as if I wasn’t truly elven anymore.

Inclining my head, I made a small, rather over-formal gesture of greeting.

“Greetings to you, my lady,” the man said stiffly.

 _My lady_ …. There could have been no greater statement of my otherness. It hurt, though I supposed I had no right to expect anything different. What would I have thought, in his place, had I seen an elf who looked like me?

“Hale….” the woman said cautiously, peering at me from beside her husband, fingers curled on his sleeve. “Hale, don’t—”

He glanced at her, his hand covering hers in a brief touch of reassurance, and then he looked to me again, his expression one of uncomfortable supplication. Begging, I decided, did not come easily to these people.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” he said hesitantly, “c-could you perhaps spare some bread or… or coin? We fled our home more than a week ago, brought almost nothing with us. What little we did have we’ve lost to bandits and… and my daughter is hungry. Please?”

The child stared up at me, wide-eyed, her narrow face pale and freckly… like me at her age, I supposed, though better dressed. The whole family had a look about them I’d seen all too often before; that of pride brought low and dragged through the mud. I had no idea where the nearest alienage was, but I’d have wagered these people weren’t from it. They’d probably eked a living somewhere, the way elves could do in smaller communities—or so people said back home. If you were lucky enough to lease a workshop or find a place with a good shem craftsman, you could be viewed as a local novelty instead of a menace.

I reached for the coin purse at my belt. There wasn’t much in it. We’d already talked about pooling all the money we had, together with the few sovereigns Bann Teagan had given us, though I supposed we were all still clinging stubbornly to the bits and pieces we could call our own. I was, at least, and I was sure Leliana definitely had more coin than the rest of us knew about secreted in her pack. She thought, I suspected, that the charity she’d showed the boy, Bevin, and his sister, Kaitlyn, back in Redcliffe had gone unremarked… but it was surprising how far, and how fast, the gossip travelled.

I might not have been the beloved folk hero of the people—the flame-haired Orlesian beauty who strode out of the night, fought for them, and gave them both a handful of gold and a future—but, in this grubby alley, I could at least give a hungry family the price of a hot meal.

“Here,” I said, pressing the last few silvers I had into the man’s hand. “It’s not much, but… perhaps it could buy me some information?”

Sometimes, the greatest charity is to make a gift look like a purchase.

The gratitude on his face deepened, and his dark eyes met mine. “Thank you. I… well, what is it you wish to know?”

“I, uh, don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from Denerim?” I asked, the hope resting thick in my throat. “I’m trying to find news from there, and—”

Hale shook his head. “I’m sorry, no. We’ve come from further south… a village called Esher. There were rumours of darkspawn, and terrible fighting. A large number of Chasind Wilders came through, and sacked one of the farms. Everyone was so scared, especially with the stories they’re telling about Ostagar, and the king…. We fled, and we’ve heard nothing from the north, save the fact that Teyrn Loghain is set to become the new regent.”

His wife nodded, panic glazing her pale green eyes. She had a heavy fringe of dark blonde hair, which reminded me faintly of Valora, and it shook a little when she nodded fervently.

“Yes. Maker be praised. If anyone can lead us out of this mess, it’s Teyrn Loghain. We should be thankful he was spared.”

“Oh.” It had been a small chance, I supposed, and I forced a smile through the sudden fog of distaste and unease. “Well, never mind. Thank you anyway, and… good luck. Take care of yourselves, and maybe… think about heading north, if you can. Soon.”

Hale’s expression tightened, his fingers flexing on his little girl’s shoulder.

“You think so? We had thought to go to Redcliffe, but they say something bad’s happened there. Darkspawn, maybe, or… some kind of sickness. I don’t know.”

I saw the look in his eyes, the wariness with which he still regarded me. I couldn’t blame him for it, and I shrugged.

“I’d go north. Maybe make for the coast. The fighting in the south may get worse before it gets better. So I’ve heard, anyway.”

There was a small, hard beat of silence, and I wondered what the family thought of that: the words of an oddly dressed, armed stranger. Was it advice they would heed? And would it even help them if they did?

Still, Hale thanked me, and I took my leave, aware that I should catch up with the others before Morrigan set fire to something or someone decided Sten should be lynched for being qunari without a permit. Hunger and fear do not build tolerance in the dispossessed.

**_~o~O~o~_ **

We met up on the far side of the square; I could hear Alistair and Morrigan bickering long before I got there, and Wynne greeted me with a strained smile.

“Ah, good. All together again. We should move on, I think.”

I nodded, and we headed out of the village boundaries and on towards the farmlands lying beyond, where the road swept east and would, eventually, take us past all this civilised landscape, and along the northerly edge of The Hinterlands.

The dying breaths of Alistair and Morrigan’s latest tussle—something about the legends of Chasind men being stolen by the Witch of the Wilds, and the luring of templars to an unholy doom in the swamps—foundered to an impasse, with both of them settling for quiet glares and mutterings as we walked. It was into that lull in the conversation that Leliana murmured:

“Don’t look now, but I think we’re being followed.”

I knew she was right. I could feel it. Someone was watching or, rather, lots of someones.

“How many?” I asked, hand beginning to move to the blade at my hip.

“Not sure,” she said, as we still headed forwards in an easy, nonchalant manner. “Several men. Not well armed… and not used to staying out of sight.”

A farmhouse rose up to the right, a single long, low building with a small vegetable garden behind a low stone wall. Post-and-rail fences marked off the fields either side of the track and, with the village at our backs, there was little choice but to keep moving. Whatever company we had, they appeared to be sticking to the sparse stands of trees that fringed the roadway… and I hoped they would leave us alone once we were out of sight of the houses.

I clung to that thought until the first stone bounced off the back of my head.

“Ow!” I swore and, hand going to what was sure to be a fine lump when the swelling came out, spun round.

At my heel, Maethor growled, ears pressed flat to his bullet skull.

They were coming out of the trees, and out from behind the farmhouse and its outbuildings… the most desperate ambush I’d ever seen. There were twenty of them, at best count. Farmhands, labourers, refugees… some armed with pitchforks and cudgels, others just standing there with bare fists and clenched teeth.

“Oi!” A heavy-set human at the front of the group, with dirty fair hair and wide, pale eyes, pointed a finger at Alistair. “We know who you are. You and the knife-ear. You’re Grey Wardens. Teyrn Loghain’s men been through ’ere not two days ago, putting the word out about you.”

They were drawing closer, and we didn’t have anywhere to run.

“Oh, Maker,” Alistair muttered. He held up his hands, aiming for conciliation. “Look, you really don’t want to—”

“Fools!” Morrigan barked. “Do you truly wish to court your deaths?”

“All I know is there’s a bounty on your ’eads as would fill a lot of hungry bellies,” the man said, his voice cracked with desperate determination. “Get them!”

My gut pitched. The men charged us, and it seemed to happen in a long, winding moment, stretched close to breaking. There was no choice for us, no option but to defend ourselves, and I clutched at that thought as a human in ragged trousers and tunic ran at me, swinging a pitchfork in his hands.

I drew my sword, and my arm felt like lead. He wasn’t huge for a shem, but he was still bigger than me; dark-skinned, broad-shouldered… blank-faced to the point of not even seeming alive. I thought of the walking corpses at Redcliffe, and the night they’d come in endless droves, dead flesh powered forwards by a sheer core of anger and hate.

Even that would have been easier than this. These men, who had nothing, who had lost everything… wouldn’t I have done the same in their place?

The pitchfork swung around, the blunt end of the handle driving at my head. I ducked, but it still connected with my cheekbone, hard, and my vision blurred, teeth juddering in my jaw. I got one good look at the man as I lurched to the side, and I saw the mingled fear, fury and anguish breaking over his face, waves of realisation and sheer, blind terror.

Behind me, I heard metal hitting wood, hitting flesh… the sounds of the refugees throwing themselves against what they must have known would be a hopeless cause. I heard cries, screams, and that familiar sound of Morrigan’s staff unleashing a burst of ice that ripped through the air, catching at unguarded flesh. The smell of blood met the crisp coldness, and the shem before me brought his pitchfork around again, trying to drive it into my midriff as if I was a bale of hay. They weren’t fighters. It took very little to turn his weapon aside, and to see the fright in his eyes when he thought I was about to run him through.

I brought my knee up, sharp and short, and drove a punch into the bridge of his nose as he doubled over. The pitchfork slipped from his fingers and he grunted, bloody and wincing, but at least had the sense to stay down when he fell. Pain bloomed hotly through the knuckles of my left hand and I cursed, shaking it out as I spun and dived, trying to avoid the next threat that barrelled towards me. Another farmhand… his fist caught the back of my ribs, knocking the breath from me.

“Knife-eared bitch!” he spat.

I knew the shapes of the words; saw them, felt them rather than heard them, through the mess of the brawl. It was turning ugly… of course. They could hardly back down. I tried not to look when I thrust my blade into the man’s flesh. He fell forward, an expression of intense surprise on his face, and blood spilled from his lips. I couldn’t both extract my sword and step out of the way, so I tried to catch him. He was too heavy, and I staggered in the press of bodies, arms and elbows flying all around me, magic burning through the air above and so much shouting… I could hear Maethor snarling, defending his pack against these ill-equipped, desperate people, and then I was on my back in the mud, under the weight of a stinking, warm, dead human.

I whimpered as I scrambled out, tendrils of panic tugging at me. Slippery, damp hands fought to pull my blade from the body, then brought it around without conscious thought or impulse, thwacking into the gut of another man who was lashing out at Leliana, a blunt woodaxe in his hand.

It was all clumsy, messy and awful. When it was finally over and we stood, seven strong to the pile of twenty-odd bodies on the muddy dirt road, everything seemed very quiet. There was silence, broken only by ragged breathing, and the dull roar of blood in my ears.

“A-Are they all dead?” Leliana asked.

She sounded horrified, but there was a core of something dark beneath the words… a hard, seasoned practicality.

Morrigan prodded one of the prostrate farmhands with her black iron staff, and curled her lip. Fine droplets of blood speckled her pale, bare arms, and a thin streak of it marked one cheek.

“This one is. If some live, we should—”

“We should go,” Alistair said flatly, staring at the devastation. He looked across at me, his face tight and shadowed. “Just go. Right?”

I nodded, and glanced back down the road towards the village. “I agree. We need to… not be here, and fast. Off the road, too. What are the chances of cutting across country?”

He grimaced. “Not good, but I don’t see we have much choice.”

I wiped my sword in the scrubby grass at the side of the road, trying not to see the outstretched hands and blank faces of men, left crumpled in the dirt. Did we all feel like murderers? I wondered. It was the first time, for me, that killing had been such a clammy, dirty business. Self-defence, yes, but no demons, darkspawn, or foul magic to make it easy. No fine-honed swords or guard uniforms, or any other tidy, reasonable excuses.

“Then that’s what we do,” I said, trying to inject some confidence into my voice, and pretend it didn’t sound so pale and shaky. I peered at my companions. “Everyone else all right?”

There was a half-hearted chorus of assents. Wynne looked the most rattled and Sten, predictably, was so calm and implacable he could have been waiting for a mail coach. He barely even had any blood on him, as far as I could see.

Maethor whined, and I glanced down to see him favouring his right front paw. I knelt and held out a hand.

“C’mon, boy. What is it?”

Tentatively, the mabari gave me his paw, his wide toes almost overlapping my palm. His great, trap-like jaws were open, rank and bloody dog-breath assailing me through the bars of his teeth, but those liquid eyes were full of trust… and greater intelligence than I’d seen on some shems.

He had a cut on the back of his pad, and his wrist had been sorely wrenched, but there wasn’t much I could do about it then, save tying on a quick bandage, and hoping for the best.

We had to get moving if we wanted to avoid the prospect of local lawmen… or an angry mob.

**_~o~O~o~_ **

Things were strained after that little encounter. We cut across the farmland that lay—according to Alistair’s map—in a swathe between the Hinterlands and the foothills of the Southrons, and we pushed our pace hard to put as much distance as possible between us and that damned village. Had it even had a name? I almost wished I knew it, so I could have something to attach the bitter memories to.

No one talked much. I think we all felt a little dirty, a little angry and ashamed. I hope so, anyway. Death should never be something unimportant, and none of those poor bastards had deserved it, even if they had attacked us first.

Later, of course, I would learn how to guard myself against being so deeply cut by things I could not control. There are only so many ghosts one person can let walk in her wake, and those who are there by their own choosing must not be allowed to wail the loudest.

The girl I was that day, though… she didn’t understand that. She was shaken, and afraid, and as we walked, she thought more and more of what the men had said.

“He wants us dead, doesn’t he?”

I’d quickened my pace, drawing level with Alistair as we hiked over some farmer’s boggy lower field, mud sucking at our boots and crows cawing overhead.

“Hm?” He glanced at me, evidently somewhere deep in his own thoughts.

“Loghain. He knows we’re alive… and he wants us dead. That must mean we really are the only ones left.”

I’d been wrestling with the notions for the past half hour or so, and I suppose I wanted to hear that they sounded silly, that I was being melodramatic, or that, somehow, there was some reasonable explanation for it all.

Alistair snorted bitterly. “Sure looks that way, doesn’t it? And it means he knows that we know what he did. All of it. Abandoning the king at Ostagar, maybe even setting us up at the Tower of Ishal. It could all have been part of his plan.”

“I d— well… it _could_ ,” I said, as diplomatically as possible.

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

They were dark, final words, and Alistair returned to scowling at the horizon. I let out a breath, feeling defeated and rather lonely. We were fracturing… I could feel it. All of us. Splitting apart and bowing beneath the weight of the thing, and it was still a very long way to Denerim. Someone needed to hold us together, but there was a big difference between realising that fact, and knowing how to even start going about it.

Morrigan didn’t help. As the hours wore on and the farms slipped by, everyone began to grow tired and grumpy. She sniped at Alistair, he carped back, and Leliana—with uncharacteristic shrill anger—told them both to shut up. Silence rolled back over us and, to cap off a perfectly wonderful day, the rain started again. I pulled my cloak tight around myself, and sought out a desolate stand of trees on the horizon, at the foot of a hill.

“We’ll head for there,” I said, my voice sounding unexpectedly loud in the bristling quiet. “Shelter. Should be quiet enough. We’ll make camp for the night, maybe wait out this weather.”

I half-expected someone to challenge me, or to hear some snide comment or argument, but nothing came. I frowned to myself and walked on, boots squelching but, thankfully, not leaking. Maethor, still favouring his sore paw, trotted obediently at my side, and every stride felt a little bit wobbly, unused as I was to the acquiescence of others.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

Camp was a welcome relief, if a repetitive routine. Wet trees, damp earth, no dry wood… the musky, sickly smell of rotting leaves and debris. Part of me was faintly amazed to catch myself tossing out what almost sounded like orders as we shucked our packs in the small clearing we’d found.

“Right. Sten? Would you please start getting a fire together? We could all do with drying out. Perhaps Wynne or Morrigan can help with setting a flame. The rest of us’ll get the tents up… the more shelter, the better. I’ll see about scaring up a couple of rabbits or something once we’re done. I think it’s my turn to cook anyway, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ser,” Alistair murmured, somewhere behind my left shoulder.

I turned, prepared to apologise, but he’d actually cracked a smile. Beyond that, the others were—to my surprise—doing what I said, and with barely any comment. Alistair’s smile widened as he looked away, and he shook his head, busying himself with unrolling the first of the heavy canvas tents.

We worked quickly, making the clearing into a passably comfy place to spend the night. It seemed relatively safe, as well. Aside from a few clumsy poachers’ snares, which I grubbed out and hung on one of the trees (growing up with the alienage’s unique brand of rats had taught me plenty about spotting, and using, wire loops and nooses), the copse was remarkably free of any signs of activity. No bandits, no refugees… it was the one bright point in an otherwise horrible day.

Still, I was glad to slip away once everyone was settled. A magically assisted fire lent a warm, partially comforting glow to the centre of the camp, and I took Maethor—sore paw now treated and bound up—with me out into the dark, in search of fresh meat.

It was then that I felt it. Whispers, murmurs that came from the shadows. Like a low-grade burning, an unscratchable itch at the centre of my back, or even beneath my skin…. It had never happened when I was awake before. They were dream-voices, not real things, not… not _real_.

I stopped, the night rain cold on my cheeks, and crouched in the muddy brush. Maethor was beside me, staring intently at the hedgerow we were hugging, the border to whoever’s farm we’d been trespassing on. I reached out, wanting the solidity of the dog’s warmth beneath my hand. He whined softly, and I buried my fingers in the loose-skinned folds of his shoulders, his short coat cool in comparison to the blood-heat of his body. I held on and listened to the rhythm of the mabari’s breathing… to the rhythm of my own.

We stayed there like that, crunched up in the muddy bushes, with me barely daring to move. Eventually, it went away. The murmurs passed, the burning ceased, and I felt dizzy and wiped out. My skin prickled, and I wanted to wash it from the inside. Maethor grumbled, deep in his chest, then pounced on something inoffensive and squeaky, and deposited most of it proudly at my feet.

“Good dog,” I said absently. “But that won’t feed everyone.”

He whined uncertainly, then plunged away into the darkness, snuffling and growling softly. I followed, blind in the dark, brambles and twigs scratching at my inept, city-dweller’s stumbles.

I wondered how sensing darkspawn actually worked, and how accurate it was. Were they here, now? Watching me… waiting? How many were they? Had they sensed me, or Alistair? I supposed I’d learn, with time, how to tell such things. It wasn’t a prospect that filled me with glee.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

When we got back to the copse, the fire was the first thing I saw. It almost washed away some of the cold, and the fear, and the uncertainty… the sight of those flames a cheerful, comforting thing. Wynne was sitting close to it, apparently arguing with Morrigan over the Circle Tower. I got the feeling I’d come in halfway through a pretty good fight.

Leliana, seated on the ground and drying her boots out, glanced up and gave me a weary roll of her eyes. Sten was already in his usual position, sitting at the flap of his tent and apparently staring at nothing, and I expected to see Alistair engaged in chipping the mud off some piece of armour, but he wasn’t immediately near the fire. I caught sight of him at the edge of the trees, peering out into the darkness and, when he saw me, he seemed almost relieved. He nodded, shoulders dropping a bit, and appeared to relax a little.

He’d felt it too, I assumed, but beyond that I knew nothing. I had questions, but they weren’t the kind that needed asking on an empty stomach, so I went to the cookpot and settled down to gut and skin the catch, and do something in the way of supper.

“But surely,” Wynne protested, either still goading Morrigan or allowing herself to _be_ goaded, “you and your mother must have drawn notice from time to time. No matter how powerful you claim to be, you would not wish the full attention of the Chantry.”

Morrigan let out a dark, disparaging chuckle. “Hunters did come into the Wilds from time to time. They did not _leave_.”

I peered up from my work, watching the two mages face each other across the flames, testing their strength like circling dogs, ready to snap and lunge.

“And the interest of the Chantry was never aroused?” Wynne made a pretence of smoothing her robe across her knees, the deep red cloth catching the fire’s glimmer. “I find that difficult to believe.”

Morrigan scoffed and tossed her head back, the feathers on her shoulders ruffling like some exotic mane.

“I imagine you find many things difficult to believe, old woman. Your own preference for the leash you wear, for instance.”

Wynne rose above the ‘old woman’ line gracefully, and just shrugged. I was watching so intently I almost cut my thumb on my new knife—yet another useful piece of kit garnered in Redcliffe.

“There are good reasons for the world for fear mages,” she said, gazing into the fire and reminding me of the conversation we’d had a few days ago. “Despite our best intentions.”

I dropped the bits of meat into the cookpot. I’d been quick, clean and efficient, and kept the job to myself. With some judicious seasoning and a dash of luck, nobody would notice the rabbit stew was made partly from rat.

Morrigan raised one slim, pale hand and inspected her nails, sitting bolt upright beside the fire as if she was on show like some fancy lord’s wife at a Summerday parade.

“ _Your_ best intentions, perhaps,” she said archly. “Their fear concerns me not at all.”

Wynne laughed softly, which struck me as a rather dangerous sound.

I poured a little of our hard-won water into the pot from the skin I had beside me, just enough to stop the stew sticking, and dropped in a handful of herbs. At least the great outdoors had plentiful supplies of something… not that wild mustard and jack-in-the-green would keep us going indefinitely.

They definitely made an odd pair, those two, sitting opposite each other like bookends on the same shelf. So different: one ordered and neat, the other ostentatiously wild—perhaps a trifle artificially so, it had to be said—yet both so particular in certain ways… and both hard as stone. I wondered which would shatter first when they smashed against each other. If they did. Maybe they’d just grind away at each other, wearing a path to grudging tolerance along the way.

“Do you truly believe that?” Wynne asked, tilting her head to the side. “That the Circle of Magi is a leash? You’ve never been part of it, never—”

“You speak of it as if it is a loss. No, I have never seen your precious tower, never been one of the mages herded like cattle… yet one would have to be a fool to think otherwise. Of course it is a leash.”

Wynne nodded slowly. “Ah. Then you would prefer a world where young mages were slain by the ignorant for their talent? Taught to fear their abilities?”

“Is that not what the Circle already preaches?” Morrigan snorted disparagingly. “You fear your abilities, instead of revelling in them. You do not teach… merely constrain.”

I wasn’t sure whether they knew they were providing such riveting entertainment for the rest of the camp. Morrigan probably did… and I wouldn’t have put it past Wynne. Still, even Maethor was lying quietly by the fire, watching the humans posture and pose at each other. We were all rapt, and Alistair couldn’t hide his grin.

“Believing ourselves to be superior over other men is what led to the Imperium,” Wynne pointed out. “And the darkspawn.”

Well, that wasn’t strictly true. Or was it? I thought of the first time I’d met her, at Ostagar, when she’d talked of allegory and interpretation… and then the rather brisker explanation of darkspawn I’d heard from Alistair. ‘We don’t know’ was not what I’d expected, but then nothing ever seemed to be what I expected. I hadn’t truly believed the damn things were more than stories, right up until I found myself face-to-face with one in the Korcari Wilds.

Morrigan let out a short cough of disbelief. “Oh? I cannot believe you give credence to such drivel!”

“Those who do not heed the lessons of history are doomed to repeat them,” Wynne said sagely… with a touch of smug condescension.

I suspected she was having altogether too much fun with this game. Morrigan scowled.

“Indeed? Then you need look no further than the elves for an example of what occurs when you allow others to hold your leash.”

That, although not superficially directed at me, stung nevertheless. I clanged the ladle against the side of the cookpot, and privately determined to give the witch a bowl with a bit of rat in it.

There was a grain of truth to it, of course… especially if Valendrian’s stories were to be believed. He’d always made such a point of hammering home the mistakes in our people’s history. It was as if he wanted us to think we were worth no more than the place we were given, and I suppose in a way that was true. He could keep us safe, if only we kept our heads down, and didn’t make trouble for ourselves, or anyone else.

A pang of homesickness assailed me then, a violent ache of nostalgia and guilt. I still dreamed about it. Still heard the screams, saw the faces of the people I’d lost, and imagined myself back there… only to find nothing but smoke and ruins. It was getting worse, the more I thought about this damn return to Denerim. I should have argued, should have told Bann Teagan the Blight was our priority, that the arl would have to take his chances, or that Ser Perth’s knights would have to track down this missing scholar.

“Well, then, Morrigan,” Wynne said evenly, “let us assume the Circle does not exist. Would you advocate a return to the day of the old Imperium?”

“I advocate nothing. Nature simply dictates that the strong survive, if they have the will.”

Wynne nodded and smiled, as if a student had just proven an interesting point. She folded her hands neatly across her knees, and arched her thin, grey brows.

“So, you prefer a life of hardship and fear, so long as you believe you aren’t tethered and are free to do as you wish. Is that correct?”

“That is so,” Morrigan said breezily, daring her to challenge.

“I see. But… are you not here because your mother wished you to be?”

Beyond the campfire, Alistair’s splutter of laughter was hastily transformed into a cough. Morrigan narrowed her ochre-gold eyes, and sat perfectly still.

“I could leave if I desired to.”

Her voice was like a shard of dark ice, but Wynne didn’t flinch. She just smiled genially and nodded again, like an old woman taking a polite interest in someone else’s grandchildren.

“Oh, of course. Of course. It… well, it simply strikes me as odd that one who believes in such freedom has never spent any time alone and unprotected. That is all.”

The fire cracked and spat into the steeply shelving void of silence between the two women. Their gazes met, and I half-expected the air to burst into flame. Alistair’s coughing fit had grown inexplicably worse, and I took the opportunity to haul the cookpot off the heat and declare—brightly and, above all, loudly—that supper was done.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

We ate in relatively good humour, despite the dampness and the scars of the day. No one complained about the food, and Wynne and Morrigan’s dog-fight had, oddly enough, broken a lot of the tension in camp.

Still, after we’d cleared up and started to splinter off to our respective tents, I found myself thinking that someone should make some kind of conciliatory effort where Morrigan was concerned. That… and every time I thought about trying to go to sleep, I started picturing the dead refugees we’d left on the roadside, or wondered whether the night would be filled with more whispering in my head. I hadn’t had a chance to speak to Alistair about it. I didn’t know what to say, really; perhaps I was frightened of going mad. People said that, didn’t they? The taint drove those it touched insane, destroyed them from the inside out, until they were nothing but twisted, empty husks, ghouls with hate and godless rage where their souls should be. And yet the Wardens were supposed to be immune… and _yet_ , we had these nightmares, these scratchy murmurings in the shadows, that others did not. We were… what? Bonded? I shuddered at the thought, and decided that maybe there were some things I wasn’t ready to understand.

So, I brushed my way through the trees, away from the glow of the fire, and towards the corner of the camp Morrigan had carved out for herself, as she seemed to prefer to do. Not far from where she’d pitched her tent, her staff was stuck firmly into the soft ground, like a pennant. A thin black cord hung around its neck, a raven’s feather and two small stone beads strung onto it. As I looked, the feather seemed to shift slightly, as if caught by the wind, although I couldn’t feel any breeze.

“Yes?”

My shoulders tightened a little at that arch, crisp voice.

“I… just wondered if I could talk to you for a moment,” I said, dragging my gaze away from the staff.

Morrigan stood next to her tent—had she been there a second ago?—the slip of a pale form in the dimness, wrapped in those Wilder’s rags of hers, a peculiar juxtaposition of heavy leather and diaphanous wisps of cloth. She folded her arms across her chest, a rustle of fabric and feathers in the stillness, then tilted her head to the side and regarded me coolly.

“Oh?”

It wasn’t exactly outright hostility. In fact, I had to admit that there seemed to have been a slight softening of her attitude towards me since those first few days in the Wilds. She’d never savaged me the way she did Alistair, but there had been fewer snide comments… perhaps even the first stirrings of a mutual respect. It didn’t stop me wanting to keep her at arm’s length.

“I, er, appreciate it must be a little… uncomfortable,” I said awkwardly, groping for the right words, the right way to say what I wanted without suggesting weakness on her part. “The past week or so. All the business with the Circle mages, those things Sten talked about… and now having Wynne along, it—”

Morrigan snorted and dropped her hands to her hips, pausing for a moment before she crossed to the open flap of her tent, crouching to rummage in a large leather bag I hadn’t seen before.

“You think I am easily perturbed, then,” she said, those hard, white hands delving through whatever the bag contained. I caught a whiff of something bitter and musty, like dried herbs of some description. “Should I ball myself up and cry, woebegone at all I have missed, or shamed by everything I am?”

I started to think I shouldn’t have bothered trying to bridge the distance between us, but something pushed me forward. It was the lingering guilt I felt at having left her at Redcliffe, standing guard over Connor the way I hadn’t had the guts to do. Oh, people had been so thankful, said how wonderful it was we’d tried so hard to save his life… but I knew the truth. I’d simply been too much of a coward to take the easier, blunter path, and I had left her there, assuming the boy would turn again before we reached the Circle, and hoping she’d have to finish him for me. I suspected Morrigan knew that.

“No,” I said, rocking back on my heels and glancing up at the velvet night, barred by the rustling shadows of trees, and pricked with the cold gleam of stars. “No one can do anything about the past. Of course, that doesn’t stop you wondering… I know _that_. We’re all what we are because of where we come from.”

“How philosophical,” she said, sarcasm dripping from the words.

“Like you,” I went on, unabashed. “You grew up in the Korcari Wilds, didn’t you?”

Morrigan straightened up, a small pouch in her hand. It looked like it contained herbs or resin or something, and I could smell the bitter tang of its contents on the cool air. I stared at the pouch, mainly to avoid the accusatory glare of those hard, eerie golden eyes.

“Why do you ask me such questions?” she demanded. “I do not probe you for pointless information, do I?”

I shrugged. “Well, you could if you wanted. We don’t have to be strangers, do we?”

Morrigan scoffed and shook her head. “What is it you asked? If I ‘grew up’ in the Wilds? A curious question. Where else would you picture me?”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” I said evenly. “It must be… strange, I guess, to be in the middle of this. Even for you.”

Those golden eyes narrowed, but then her expression seemed to relax a little, and Morrigan flexed one white shoulder.

“True enough. For many years it _was_ simply Flemeth and I. The Wilds and its creatures were more real to me than her tales of the world of men although, in time, I grew curious. I left the Wilds to explore what lay beyond… though never for long.” The corner of her mouth twitched, and she stared away into the darkened trees. “Brief forays into a civilised wilderness.”

She must feel more comfortable here than any of us, I thought. At home in the shadows, guarded by the embrace of branches and brambles that, to me, were sharp, accusing fingers. The only one of us to find comfort or familiarity in places that seemed barren and empty.

“But you kept going back to the Wilds,” I said; an observation, not a question.

Morrigan glanced at me, her thin brows arched. “Would you not do the same? Your world is an unforgiving and cold place.”

She had a point. I nodded ruefully. “It can be. I know.”

Her mouth twisted into a curl of what, in anyone else, I might have said was regret, and she switched the pouch of herbs into one hand as she bent down to pick a clay jar out from the leather bag at her feet.

“There was much Flemeth could not teach me. When to look into another’s eyes, how to eat at a table, how to bargain without offending… none of these things I knew.” Morrigan uncorked the jar, revealing a greasy ointment that smelled like hog lard, and tipped the contents of the pouch into it. “I still do not understand it all, truth be told. Such as the touching—why all the touching for a simple greeting?”

I frowned, watching as she tucked the empty pouch into her robe and snapped a twig from a nearby tree, with which she began to stir the herbs into the ointment, releasing a strong, bitter odour.

“Er… touching? What, like a handshake?”

“To begin with, yes.” She glanced up, glaring at me as if I should know the answer to her question. “What is the point of touching my hand? I find it an offensive intrusion.”

I started to shrug. “Well, it— I’m not sure. I think it’s supposed to be a gesture of good faith. Respect. Showing you have no weapon ready… I suppose.”

Something of a hollow gesture where a mage was concerned, probably. I didn’t mention it, and Morrigan just gave me a withering stare.

“It is ridiculous.”

“Wh— well, yes.” I relented meekly. “I suppose it is.”

She made a small ‘hm’ in the back of her throat and, without looking, reached out to set the clay jar on the lower branch of a tree, just as I might have used a handy table or shelf.

“So, all the times you left,” I said, framing on impulse a question I probably shouldn’t have asked, “and ventured out into the world, did no one ever…? I mean, you weren’t in danger from the templars, or anything?”

Morrigan regarded me with a cool, critical stare and then, unexpectedly, flashed a small, terse smile.

“Only once was I accused of being a Witch of the Wilds, and that by a Chasind who happened to be travelling with a merchant caravan. He pointed and gasped and began shouting in his strange language, and most assumed he was casting some curse upon me.” She sounded almost as if she was recounting a fond memory, and a trace of that smile appeared again, incongruous and mildly unsettling. “I acted the terrified girl, and naturally he was arrested.”

I tried not to picture the scene. Chaos and shouting, and a small, fragile child full of more power and steel than any mighty barbarian man… and she actually seemed proud of it.

“That was… quick thinking,” I said diplomatically.

Morrigan gave a dismissive shrug, and I watched the feathers shift at her shoulders. “Men are always willing to believe two things about a woman: one, that she is weak, and two, that she finds them attractive. I merely played the weakling and batted my eyelashes at the captain of the guard. Child’s play. The _point_ is that I was able to move through human lands fairly easily. Whatever they thought a Witch of the Wilds looks like, ’tis not I.”  

I nodded slowly. It was an encouraging thing to hear. Most of the places we’d been so far had been too deeply mired in their own problems to be concerned by the presence of an apostate—much less a Witch of the Wilds—but I had the feeling that we would not be so fortunate in the long run.

“Well,” I said, “I… I’m glad we could talk, anyway.”

It seemed a hopelessly clumsy thing to say, and Morrigan gave me a typically contemptuous look.

“It’s just,” I ploughed on, aware I was probably digging myself deeper into the conversational hole, “I know if you _did_ want to leave, you would, so… you know. And, er, I am grateful for your help. Thought I should, um, say.”

It was very hard to say anything at all under the strength of that unflinching gaze, like being pinioned in place by two chips of amber. Morrigan said nothing for a few moments then, abruptly, stooped to the leather bag and drew out another clay jar, much like the one now sitting on the tree branch. She thrust it at me, arm straight, as if she was wielding a weapon.

“Here. This one has been strained and matured. For your feet,” she added, as I stared blankly at her. “A balm of woundbind, elfroot and redwort. You are almost out of the ointment you’ve been using.”

She was right, but I’d had no idea how she’d know that… although I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised. Tentatively, I took the jar from her, and smiled my awkward thanks.

“Thank you, Morrigan. I… appreciate it.”

She shrugged and looked away, as if it was of no importance, and the little patch of clearing somehow felt colder. Gathering my rather thin welcome had been outstayed, I mumbled a good night and sloped back to my tent, chilly, tired and undeniably troubled.

Maethor had already crawled in and usurped my bedroll, where he was sprawled out, snoring and dribbling. I didn’t have the heart to move him, plus the fact that he was warm, so I drew up the flap and curled up beside him, glad of the hound’s presence, if not his doggy odour. He grumbled and kicked a bit, but settled again, and I lay there, looking up at the canvas and waiting for sleep to claim me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Merien hears some things she didn't want to know, and the party stumbles into a trap.

We encountered a small band of darkspawn the next day. There were not many; about eight hurlocks, two already wounded. Perhaps they had straggled their way up from the Hinterlands to the southwest, or splintered away from the main horde, which by now must have been well and truly out of the Wilds. I tried not to think about how long it might be before it was pressing upon Redcliffe’s boundaries. Either way, I supposed it explained what I’d felt… even if it I doubted they’d been stalking us.

The darkspawn were vicious bastards, though what frightened me most about the whole thing was not the fight itself, but the things that preceded it. The burning, scratching, whispering… _knowing_ they were there, that they were coming, and then the moment when they crested the hill before us and charged down, snarling and howling as they drew their blades. It was so much than before.

It plunged us into disarray, if not quite panic. Dumping packs, drawing weapons… the hundred or so yards of breathless expectation before the six that hadn’t been picked off by the mages, or Leliana’s bow, met us in the fetid clash of rough blades and rotten flesh. I’d almost forgotten what they were like close up, my most recent memories papered over by Redcliffe’s walking dead and the abominations of the Circle Tower. Darkspawn were different. So full of hatred and violence, driven like rabid creatures by a sick, twisted core… yet too keenly aware, too vividly cunning, to be dismissed as mindless.

It was, I thought, the first time Leliana had fought them. Once it was over—the hacking, the slashing and the bleeding—she looked pale, shaky, and rather nauseous. Alistair, Sten and I hauled the bodies up together, and we set them burning before we moved on. About a half hour later, we found what had injured the darkspawn: the remains of a wolf pack, some already dead, and some with muzzles matted, covered in that dark, foul blood. The corruption could affect them, it seemed, just as it did people, and it already appeared to be wreaking changes. The creatures fought like crazed things, fierce to the point of insanity. Leliana felled three with well-placed arrows to their red, bloodshot eyes, and the others succumbed to magic and steel, leaving us panting and ankle-deep in churned, blood-stained mud, with the smell of burnt hair, wet fur and damp earth on the air.

Another pyre, another cloud of thick, black smoke. We paused for a while, waiting as the flames started to take the diseased bodies. I couldn’t help but think what the horde would bring with it; they tainted the land itself, so people said. Turned everything rotten, fetid… killed all they touched. I hadn’t seen the full extent of it yet, the way the darkspawn swarmed a place and stripped it bare, leaving nothing but bones and burnt ash behind, a scar that could take decades to heal.

We moved on, striking north-north-east across open country, sandwiched between the rangy undulations of the Southrons and the line of the Drakon River. The land was changing around us again, the strips of lush farmland growing harder and stonier, and the hills rising ever higher, fringed with the dark, jagged shapes of trees. The Brecilian Forest lay further east, beyond the networks of paths and passes that marked the hills, and I kept catching myself glancing towards that shadowy march of silent shapes, as if bands of savage Dalish might emerge from between the tree trunks, and rain arrows down on us at any moment.

None appeared, of course. We’d seen and heard nothing of them, nor found anyone to ask. Alistair reckoned that, with luck, we could make Denerim in about nine days. He sounded so bloody chirpy about it I wanted to hit him, but I said nothing.

The damp was seeping into everything, and the cold made us all crabby and uncomfortable, with the exception of Morrigan. She strode out, a little away from the rest of us, her robes dancing in the wind and her staff stabbing the ground in even, bold strokes as she walked. Fearless… a part of this strange, foreign world. I didn’t like it. I missed the broad, repetitive comfort of the Highway, so fed up with tussocks and hillocks and things dripping down the back of my neck that I almost started to wish Duncan had never conscripted me, and I could be rotting in a dungeon somewhere… which would probably have been warmer. They were silly, stupid thoughts, and they vanished before they were even fully formed, shrouded with the wisps of worry and guilt, and the memories of everyone I’d left behind—or abandoned, more like—to face Maker only knew what punishment on my behalf.

It didn’t improve my mood, or my ability to keep the rest of us sane and buoyant. We were turning into a surly, sullen bunch, despite the occasional interludes of civility, and I knew someone had to do something about it. Yet, when we did talk, conversation kept turning to the Dalish, or Denerim, or Alistair’s musings over how Arl Eamon might be faring, and none of it filled me with anything except stodgy, glowering discomfort.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

I felt no better that evening when, amid all the damp bustle and repetitive ritual of making camp, Alistair edged over and elbowed me in the back of the ribs.

“Hey.”

“Sod,” I said, as I dropped the tent pegs I’d been trying to coax into the wet, stony ground.

The feet of the Southrons were criss-crossed by small, gritty roads, the whole flavour of the country defined by thinly spread, hardy farms and endless rocky outcrops, topped by trees and dense, wooded bands. We’d picked a spot in the lee of one such rise, and it felt like bandits were about to leap out from behind every rock.

“Sorry.” Alistair looked crestfallen, and knelt to help me fix the flapping canvas to the bare earth. “I just, um… I thought we should talk.”

I rocked back on my heels and looked carefully at him, taking in the unusually sombre set of his face, and the wary look in those hazel eyes. There had been something hanging between us, that was true; ever since those odd hours in the hallways of Redcliffe Castle, when we’d spoken of so much and yet not quite everything.

He’d wanted to say something to me then, hadn’t he? About what it meant to be a Warden, or… possibly some other dark piece of news I didn’t really want to hear.

I shrugged. “All right.”

Leliana and Wynne were preparing a pottage of vegetables and barley, Maethor begging scraps at their feet. Sten sat silent and impassive as ever, at the mouth of his already erected tent, like a carved god staring into some distant future. Morrigan was near the fire, hunched over a small leather-bound book, frowning and occasionally muttering to herself.

“Right.” Alistair straightened up, but his peculiar expression still lingered.

He nodded awkwardly to the sparse brush fringing the camp. We’d staked a claim to a sandy, dry little clearing, with a few straggly trees clinging to the pale, rocky rise of the hill. The grass was patchy and yellowish, a far cry from the lush farmland that lay further down towards the line of the river. My knees creaked a bit as I got up, and I followed him. The light was growing thin and dim, the wide expanse of sky above us fading from greyish blue to a bruised, yellow-streaked purple. The hillside took on a mantle of shadows, and bugs droned aimlessly in the dusk. Our feet crunched on the dirt, and I was reminded a little of that last night at Redcliffe, threaded through with cheap beer and deep conversation.

Alistair cleared his throat. “So, um… I guess I owe you a few answers. And I thought we should talk… about the Wardens.”

“Ah.” I nodded slowly. He’d said that before, as we wiled away the hours waiting for the Circle mages to finish with Connor. I’d known then there were things Duncan hadn’t mentioned. Things I was supposed to have been told, and most likely didn’t want to know. I wet my lower lip with an apprehensive tongue. “Well… um, yes.”

“You probably have questions, right?”

The slightly pained look on Alistair’s face didn’t do much to reassure me. I suspected this was to do with more than my starting to sense the darkspawn.

“Some,” I said warily.

“Well,” he said, pausing to clear his throat again. “Obviously, some things change after the Joining, and—”

“The dreams.” I nodded. “Yes. I know that part. And… feeling them. I felt them today. It was horrible.”

“Mm.” A muscle clenched in Alistair’s jaw, and he frowned. “Duncan said we tap into their… well, ‘group mind’, I suppose you’d call it. I know it doesn’t seem like it at first, but it does get easier to block out… at least a bit. It’s never exactly going to be pleasant.”

“No.” My left palm itched, and I scrubbed it absently against my breeches. “S’pose not.”

It was impossible to ask him the questions I wanted to. The alienage—and all the rules of decency and modesty that had been drummed into me—had not receded far enough into my past to leave me that open. Yet I hadn’t been blind to the changes. Even with all the route marches, the fighting, and the light rations, I knew my body was not behaving as it ought. It scared me.

I’d heard enough of the grotesque rumours that had flown around the army camp about the poison carried in darkspawn blood. They said it could take a man in hours, turn him to a foul, corrupted thing… and I’d assumed that was exaggeration, because we were still here, weren’t we? Still alive. Next to everything that could have gone wrong, a few missed courses and some funny dreams were hardly worth sweating over.

And yet, Alistair’s drawn, tense countenance—so little given to dissembling—told me there was more to it. He seemed a little rougher at the edges than he had, the clear, even planes of his face tight and shrouded. I wondered why he’d put this veil of privacy between us and the others. What was it I was supposed to be told, that I had to hear in private?

“There are, uh… well,” I began hesitantly, “ _physical_ changes, though. Right?”

He smiled thinly. “Yes. You know, after my Joining, I asked Duncan about it too. All I got was ‘You’ll see’.”

I frowned. “He wouldn’t tell you?”

Alistair sighed, and squinted up at the hillside. “Well, it wasn’t that he wanted to keep it secret… it’s just that it doesn’t get discussed much.”

The dusk was growing thicker, and he reached up a hand to swat away a gnat that drifted in crazed zig-zags through the air between us. He shrugged and gave me another long, uncomfortable look, as if he didn’t know how to broach whatever it was he was struggling with.

“The first change _I_ noticed,” he said, a little too quickly, blurting the words out into the stillness, “was an increase in appetite.”

“Uh… huh?” I frowned, nonplussed.

Alistair nodded enthusiastically, and I recognised the way his shoulders tensed and his hands raised, ready to shape themselves around the corners of whatever anecdote was to come.

“Mm-hm. I used to get up in the middle of the night and raid the castle larder. I thought I was starving. I’d slurp down every dinner like it was my last, my face all covered in gravy.” He paused for effect, grinning encouragingly at me. “When I’d look up, the other Grey Wardens would stare… then laugh themselves to tears.”

It was certainly an image, but my frown deepened, and I wasn’t that moved to laugh. “I haven’t felt anything like that. Should—”

“Really?” Alistair smirked. “Because I was watching you wolf down food the other day and I thought, ‘ooh, it’s a good thing she gets a lot of exercise….’”

The tension cracked as I realised he was pulling my leg and, despite myself, I chuckled. The cool air was growing damp as the night drew in, and the pebbles scuffled beneath my boot as I made to kick him.

“Are you calling me a pig? You— well!” I grinned and, with a shrug, smoothed my hands over the front of my leathers. “What can I say? I’m a growing girl.”

“I’ll say,” Alistair quipped, then spluttered as I raised a hand in mock preparation to thump him. “Argh, no… I didn’t mean it like that. Don’t hit me! I bruise easily!”

I shook my head incredulously. He’d got me that time, and I didn’t mind admitting it. Looking back, it surprises me that I didn’t see how effortlessly he manipulated me, or wonder at why he put so much work into doing it… into softening the blow, perhaps.

In any case, I was still smiling, but the mirth had faded from Alistair’s face. The look in his eyes sobered me quickly.

“There are… other things, though.”

“Oh?”

He strafed a hand over his hair, dusky shadows clinging to his skin. The warm, cosy circle of firelight seemed a long way off, and the smell of barley pottage tugged at the air. Something small and probably squeaky rustled through the undergrowth.

“Yes.” Alistair let a small, low breath slide from his lips, and didn’t quite meet my eye. “The taint… it does change you. Um. All the, uh, all the Grey Wardens I met who’d had children, for instance… they, er, all had them before they Joined.”

The shadows seemed to lengthen, the chill to the thickening air growing bitter.

“Oh.”

Well, I’d worked that out for myself, hadn’t I? Not that it made it easier to hear it confirmed.

Back home, we had names for women like that; women with the core burned out of them, barren and ill-favoured. Dry, useless… because that was what life held for us, and it was the role we were expected to fulfil. As mothers, as wives, we could be respected and cherished. We were the centre of our community and, just as the wedding Father had wanted to give me should have marked the start of my full, real life, so should the children I bore Nelaros have made me complete.

I’d wanted that… albeit in a nebulous, far-off kind of way. Something I’d assumed would happen, in the same way I’d taken the impending marriage for granted. Perhaps that very laziness was what made it hurt all the worse now. Stupid to burn so badly at losing something I’d never truly ached to possess.

I blinked, aware of the heaviness behind my eyes, and aware of Alistair watching me closely, as if he was afraid I might suddenly burst into tears. I cleared my throat, pulled my shoulders back and met his gaze, determined to show I was fine… unaffected. I didn’t understand why he looked like he’d just been punched in the gut or why, when he spoke, his voice was low and slightly husky.

“You see… those who survive the Joining, they resist the taint. Withstand it, if you like. But no one can do that indefinitely. It does change you and, ultimately, it— well, your body won’t be able to take it.”

A bird landed in the trees above, home to roost, the branches rattling and a few leaves dislodged in the dimness. They fluttered down, soft dark shapes with no weight, no consequence. My breaths were slow, but my heart quickened, and the slippery edges of a cold, steep void opened up in the pit of my stomach.

“I… don’t understand,” I lied.

I did. I just wasn’t ready to accept it, preferring to believe I’d misheard, misunderstood… that he didn’t really mean it. The trees were black, skeletal shapes against the darkening sky, and a breeze rustled through them, a dry murmur in the brush.

Alistair winced. He was trying to keep his expression neutral, but unlike Duncan, who had mastered the art of the impassive mask, he wasn’t all that good at it.

He blinked and nodded reluctantly. When he spoke, his words soaked with hard-edged, sardonic bitterness.

“All right. I mean, there’s no easy way to put it, is there? So… in addition to all the other wonderful things about being a Grey Warden, you don’t need to worry about dying from old age. You’ve got thirty years to live. Give or take.”

The blood seemed to rush in my ears, a swirling, deafening roar that left me dizzy and shaky, like I was no more than a paper doll caught in the wind. Alistair wasn’t looking at me. He was frowning away into the scrub, his face tight and drawn. I should say something, I supposed. Prove that I wasn’t about to break down into great racking sobs… that I could face whatever had to come. I’d stumbled close to death enough times already, hadn’t I? It should have lost its mystery by now.

And yet, when I tried to speak, nothing came. I opened my mouth, and only managed the barest rasp of a breath. Alistair glanced at me guardedly, his lower lip folded between his teeth.

Breathing seemed important then. I did it slowly and deeply, unable to keep meeting his gaze. Instead, I stared down at the scuffed toes of my boots, and nodded, as if what he’d said was a perfectly reasonable statement. Well, it was, wasn’t it? I wasn’t the first to hear this news, the first to live this lingering death… and I was oddly aware of the air’s texture as I breathed, as if the air was sand, trickling in fleeting grains within me.

“You all right?”

I started to shake my head—no, I wasn’t, despite how much I’d rather have pretended otherwise—but I stopped. Stupid. Everything was still just the same as it had been before he’d told me. What difference did knowing make? Maybe… maybe I’d already known, somehow. I’d felt the changes, heard the whispers of my own body… I _should_ have known. All those nagging worries about my feminine plumbing, and losing the ability to pod babies was probably the least of my troubles. I felt so stupid, so useless… so afraid.

“I’m going to die,” I said hollowly, eyes fixed on the dark grass at my feet. It didn’t feel real. Nothing felt real. There was just a rush of empty husks of things. Thoughts, feelings… numbness.

“We’re all going to die,” Alistair said quietly.

It didn’t help. The look on my face probably indicated that, and I struggled to hold down the urge to snap, my resentment reflexive and shallow. He let out a low, tired breath and tilted his head, trying to catch my eye. I looked away.

“You know, when Duncan told me, I was… angry. He put his hand on my shoulder and said this.”

The weight of a broad, solid palm landed gently on me and I jerked my head up, meeting a look of such warm, apprehensive, sorrow-clouded sympathy in his face that it almost seemed to burn. Alistair squeezed my shoulder, and quoted Duncan’s words in very much the same way as, at my Joining, he’d recited the Grey Warden oath… an oath which I was only now beginning to understand.

“‘It’s not how you die that’s important. It’s how you live.’”

I bit my lip, pushing back all the parts of me that wanted to scream, cry, rail and panic. He was right. I knew he was right… not that the knowing lessened anything. The moment drew out: seconds of real time, but long minutes in my mind. Eventually, I sniffed, nodded, and Alistair’s hand dropped awkwardly to his side. Even through my leathers and my shabby cloak, it felt like there had been warmth there to miss, once it was gone. I cleared my throat.

“Thanks. I guess. I, er….”

“I know,” he said briskly, injecting a sharp, thin jollity into his voice. “Anyway, there you have it. And you wondered why we keep the Joining a secret from the new recruits!”

I forced a smile from unwilling lips. “Mm. S’pose so.”

Alistair chuckled mirthlessly. “Yeah…. Still, if we asked for volunteers, the Grey Wardens probably wouldn’t exist. Well, maybe a few. _You_ wouldn’t be here. Neither would I, most likely. And the Blight needs to be stopped.”

Sudden, irrational anger stabbed at my gut. Yes, that was all well and good, but why did it have to be _me_? Why us? Why… why any of it? The impossibilities and the hopelessness rose up before me like a mountain, and I wondered why in the Maker’s name we hadn’t just fled straight out of the Wilds and gone to the nearest port to get a ship to somewhere safe, with reinforcements and people who knew what they were doing and… and what?

It was too late for that kind of thinking. Too late for running.

I nodded slowly. “Yes.”

My voice sounded pale, strained. Alistair looked critically at me, then the corner of his mouth twitched, and he frowned.

“You know, Duncan started having the nightmares again. He told me that, in private. It’s what happens, when your time comes. They get… worse. He said it wouldn’t be long before he’d go to Orzammar.”

I raised my brows, reluctant to ask the question. The nightmares could get worse? Well, the good news just kept on coming.

“Orzammar? What have the dwarves got to do with—”

“It’s tradition.” He shrugged. “I mean, obviously there’s no shortage of darkspawn on the surface during a Blight, but… normally, it’s what the oldest Grey Wardens do. Go down into the Deep Roads, for one last, glorious battle.”

“Lovely,” I said, without much emphasis.

 _I don’t want to spend my whole life fighting, only to end up dead in a pit along with rotting darkspawn corpses…._

Those words made sense now—and I agreed with them, fervently.

“Well,” Alistair said, with a trace of reproach, “it’s better than sitting around… waiting. So they say. And the dwarves respect us for it.”

At that moment, what a load of beardy, stumpy little bastards thought didn’t matter a damn to me. The idea that, one day, all this would be over—that there would be an end to the blood and the terror and the constant threat of being hacked apart—had been giving me something to hold onto, and I wasn’t sure I could bear it being taken away. Not that, and not being bound to the darkspawn this way. My whole life—or what remained of it, suddenly stripped of sunset years and mapped out in the decay of a steady corruption—was to be tied to those… things. Tainted, unclean.

I blinked, aware of every breath I took stinging, and the weight of tears I was too numb to shed sitting at the bridge of my nose. Alistair’s face had turned grave, reverential… the mere mention of Duncan enough to wipe everything but the loss and grief from his eyes.

“I guess he got what he wanted,” he said wistfully. “I just wish it had been something worthy of him.”

I realised some response was expected of me, and I bit back on the hard, spiteful anger of a wounded child; the temptation to say ‘bugger Duncan’ and, moreover, bugger the Wardens, the darkspawn, the poxy Blight, and everything else. Instead, I sniffed again, and choked out a platitude.

“He’ll be remembered, Alistair.”

He nodded sadly. “I know. Um. You sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah.” I wrinkled my nose, cleared my throat, and turned away so I didn’t have to see the look on his face. “Yes, I’m…. I’ll just have a few minutes.”

“Ah. Right. Of course.” Alistair stepped back, as if he was nervous of me bursting into tears or throwing up on his boots, but he lingered hesitantly. “If you need… well. You know.”

I nodded, arms hugged around myself, pulling my thin cloak tight. I didn’t dare look at him; I’d probably only cry.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, and stepped clumsily away, taking myself off to the stand of trees, where the shadows they cast onto the stony ground were devoid of judgement and consequence.

He got the hint, left me alone, and I stayed there for a while, my forehead resting against rough bark, as I stared blankly into the night, and a future that somehow seemed bleaker than ever.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

We started to veer northwards the next day, intending to make it back to the river and cross over, exchanging the hilly ground for the easier terrain of the road. There had been no more villages, no more unpleasant incidents with refugees or bounties, and Alistair seemed to be growing increasingly concerned that we push on fast, as if every hour we wasted on resting brought Arl Eamon closer to death.

Morrigan snapped first, declaring what the rest of us were probably thinking—what _I_ was, anyway—and sneeringly suggesting that the arl was likely to be dead before we even got to Denerim, much less back to Redcliffe. It didn’t go down well. Leliana pitched in on Alistair’s side of the argument, proclaiming that, if it was a matter of trying to help or doing nothing, then there was no choice at all.

I was still quiet and bruised, stinging with the new truths I had to digest, but someone needed to step in and be the voice of compromise. I spoke up, agreed that yes, we were doing the right thing, and kept to myself the opinion that—even if Eamon’s ashes were cold and buried by the time we returned—the fact we’d been seen to _try_ would look better than if we’d refused. That would, I thought, matter… particularly if Isolde took control of her husband’s arling.

If we were to be alone in this mess, we needed both allies and enough moral high ground to win good opinion from those who had yet to be convinced by the facts. I may not have had much of a grasp on the murky realities of politics, but I understood how people’s minds worked… how reputations had to be hammered out like iron, faultless and resilient, and relied upon like armour.

So, we plodded on, in increasingly prickly silence. From time to time, I caught myself thinking about Lothering, and the floods of refugees from the Wilds and the Hinterlands. We’d passed the road that led to the village more than a week ago, but not close enough to see what was happening there. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, though we’d have to think about it at some point.

I wondered what the future would hold. Would the horde’s movements even _be_ predictable? They’d erupted in the Wilds, started washing north like a dark, foul tide, but what did that mean for the rest of Ferelden? They would spread, I assumed, trailing corruption and filth in their wake, but exactly how would that happen? Was it even possible to guess where and how they would swarm? The way I saw it, Ostagar had been lost either because the archdemon had outmanoeuvred the army—and been a damn sight more cunning than anyone had imagined—or because Loghain really was the treacherous bastard that Alistair thought.

At least… that was how it looked. Reason told me there must be middle ground, some palette of greys and half-truths, but it was hard to find.

To make matters worse, Maethor was getting jumpy. I thought at first it was his sore paw. Wynne had treated the dog, and Morrigan had grudgingly made up a hot elfroot poultice to take down the swelling, leaving the foot almost as good as new, despite the amount of walking we were doing. However, he’d been acting oddly, growling at shadows and howling in the small hours of the morning. I wondered about what the kennel master back at the army camp had said—how the darkspawn corruption could affect the hounds—and thought of the strange flower he’d used for treatment. Be nice to know if it also worked for Grey Wardens, I supposed. I doubted it. The blood we drank we did so intentionally, not just through the chaos of battle, and Maker only knew what the Circle mages who helped prepare the Joining ritual did to it. The fleeting thought that, just maybe, magic and blood was never a good combination did occur to me, but it didn’t seem… well, the Wardens wouldn’t use blood magic, would they?

It was probably just me, not understanding. There was, after all, a lot I didn’t know. Of course, I chalked a great deal up to ignorance then. Perhaps it was easier like that.

In any case, I put Maethor’s jitteriness down to the tension brooding over the whole group, and I did my best to leaven it. When we stopped, near the river, I took the advantage of a clear, warmish evening, and washed out a lot of our clothes in the water while Wynne prepared her trademark vegetable stew.

Camp that night was… cosy. Linens dripping over broken branches, propped near the fire, and us with full bellies, wet hair and clean-scrubbed skin. Sten and Alistair had made a sortie into the surrounding area, and there was much talk of a pass through the hills they’d found, which seemingly led to the northern neck of the forest, and quite possibly the Dalish… or so Alistair seemed to think. From the way he talked, it sounded like he really believed we’d just shimmy into Denerim, take afternoon tea and a quick chat with this elusive scholar, then bump into a wandering clan of Dalish for supper. I wasn’t sure if it was desperation or sarcasm.

Leliana, in a convivial mood, enlivened the flickering firelight with a story about the wild elves.

“You know, of course, how Andraste began Her Exalted March against the Imperium, rising up against the wickedness of the Tevinter magisters….”

Morrigan snorted, which our resident minstrel ignored, leaning into the dancing tongues of gold and orange light, her hands spread wide like elegant doves, sweeping through the tale.

“It was only natural that the elves—enslaved for a thousand years, in cruelty and oppression—should rise up and join with Her against their masters. The great elven leader, Shartan, born in captivity, foresaw a future where his people were free, and pledged his life to the Prophet’s cause.”

It was an odd experience, hearing a human tell that story. Leliana’s version was certainly different to Valendrian’s, but I had to admit that, the last time I’d heard it, I’d been different, too.

“Shartan perished when Andraste was betrayed,” Leliana went on, her voice growing sweetly mournful as she painted the Prophet’s martyrdom with words I’d heard before: the upturned face, the pure song, the sword of mercy….

No one ever talked about exactly how Shartan had died, I realised. At my feet, Maethor rolled over for a belly rub and, dutifully, I extended my hand and scratched the broad, hairy stomach.

“Yet, even with their leader gone, the elves continued to fight, eventually breaking free of the Imperium. It was a mighty triumph, and the elves finally claimed the Dales in the south, settling there as they had dreamed of doing, in a land of their own.”

I frowned slightly. Not entirely true… not the way I knew it. Those who fought the Imperium hadn’t wanted to forge something new. They’d wanted the rightful return of the cities they’d once had; to reclaim the lost world of Arlathan, and the culture and history stripped from them by the shems. Childhood stories of the Emerald Knights turned lazily over at the back of my mind, and I thought of how I’d pictured ancient elves to be when I was a little girl: proud and wild, and never having to go to bed when their parents told them to.

I suppressed a smile, and watched Leliana continue to spin her story. Maybe stories were all the ancients had ever been. Impossible to know, I supposed.

“For centuries, the elves lived in the Dales. They resurrected the worship of their elven gods, and would allow the building of no chantry. This greatly angered the Divine, and hostility between the two sides finally broke out into open war.” She sat back, her hands upon her knees, a small silence for effect as she glanced around her assembled audience. “A new Exalted March was declared, named for Andraste’s rebellion against the Imperium, and the Dales were sacked, the elven state completely dissolved.”

It seemed strange to me that Leliana didn’t emphasise what Valendrian had always called our fall of pride… how elves attacking the village of Red Crossing had brought the wrath of the Chantry down on the Dales, and how humility and tact were always the safer option. A story I could have stood to listen to more carefully, perhaps.

Morrigan arched one thin eyebrow, dark-painted lips quirked into a smile.

“’Tis most remarkable how your Chantry so often appears to be grinding some group or other beneath its heel, is it not?”

Leliana shrugged amiably. “Some do say the elves struck first. I do not know whether that is true. There are usually faults on both sides in any dispute. All I know is that there was great devastation… a terrible war. When it ended, some of the elves bitterly accepted their fates, and surrendered to human rule.”

My hand stilled on Maethor’s short, brindled coat. It was hard to say why the words pained me. Perhaps it was the phrase ‘human rule’. We, who put so much effort into painting ourselves as cleverer than them, as more cunning and more respectable—and who, every day, grubbed a dozen new reasons out of the dirt for why things shouldn’t have to be any other way—we didn’t think in terms of words like that.

“But others,” Leliana was saying, and I had to blink and concentrate on her voice, “they would not bow. Fiercely proud of their heritage, they refused to live beneath the humans as second-class citizens, little better than the slaves they had been… and instead became homeless wanderers. They were—and they remain—the elves of the Dales: the Dalish.”

She finished the tale with a pretty flourish, and gained a ripple of appreciation, though mine was perhaps less enthusiastic than it should have been. It was the ‘little better than slaves’ bit that stuck in my craw, much like that crack from Sten about excelling at poverty. They didn’t know us, and they didn’t understand. And… and that was an excuse, wasn’t it?

When the time came to slope off to bed, I was still mulling it over: all those issues of prejudice and stagnant, in-born thinking that had been bothering me for a while, and were only getting worse. Maethor barked at the stand of trees that edged the camp, and I glanced up, already chastising him for being daft. And yet, for a moment, I could have sworn there was something there… some figure in the shadows.

There wasn’t, of course. No darkspawn, no bandits, and definitely no Dalish haunting our footsteps. I crawled into the confined, muggy space of my tent, and fell into a strange, torpid sleep, in which Soris was shooting a bow and wearing deerhides. He kept trying to talk to me, but instead of his words all I heard was whispering and, eventually, he was lost in the black mist that rolled in, and the roar of that unholy voice that filled a canyon of blood-red rock.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

A little way from the main thoroughfare of the West Road, there were a number of smaller paths and roadways, and it was those we stuck to as best we could. The general theory was that it would be less dangerous. The closer we got to Denerim, after all, the more eager eyes would have devoured Loghain’s bounty posters.

So, the following morning, we were following one such packed-dirt route. Blue sky, cool breeze… the road growing narrow, banks rising either side of the track, thick with trees and ferns. Even the light took on a slightly dappled, greenish hue, and I had the sensation of following a sloping path down into somewhere it might not be a good idea to linger.

Maethor was trotting along, snuffling at the ground, when a figure broke from the brush ahead, and he jerked his head up, grumbling inquisitively. A woman in torn, ragged clothes came running up the path towards us, waving her arms and calling for help.

“Oh, thank the Maker!” She gasped as she drew closer, bending over to catch her breath. “At last! We need help. Please… they attacked the wagon… please help us!”

She addressed Alistair, of course. People usually did.

“Calm down,” he said, glancing briefly at me, as if he wasn’t sure what to do. “Who—”

I shrugged. She certainly did look like she needed help, her dress splattered with mud and her hair ragged and unkempt, but I wasn’t crazy about running towards the scene of a bandit ambush. For a start, who knew whether they’d all left?

The woman reached out her hands to him, face contorted with desperation.

“There’s no time! Please… follow me. Come on, I’ll take you to them.”

She flashed a wide-eyed look of panic at him, turned and started to scamper back off up the path, pausing only to wave impatiently for us to follow.

“Come _on_! We need help!”

Alistair winced, then hefted his pack on his shoulders and headed off after the woman, with an inquisitive glance back at the rest of us.

Behind me, Morrigan sighed theatrically. “One wonders, does one not, if people can _ever_ do anything for themselves.”

Maethor barked and loped after the blonde, mud-smirched traveller, and I supposed we had little choice. At least it made a change from being ambushed or set upon, and I wondered if, at some cosmic level, lending a bit of aid to a stricken caravan might make up for the deaths at that blighted village back west.

Overhead, sunlight filtered down through the bright, acid greens of the trees, and paved the dirty road with slabs of flickering gold.

There was, sure enough, a ruined wagon. It had been burned, the throats of the oxen had been slit, and broken crates and barrels lay across the path. A couple of carrion crows perched on the corpses of the beasts, wings stretched out for balance, and beaks tearing at the livid red wounds in their white coats. There were not, as far as I could see, any other bodies… or any other survivors.

I frowned, suddenly uncomfortable with the scene we’d stumbled into. It felt too perfect, too convenient, and I wasn’t alone in my unease.

“I don’t like this,” Leliana murmured. “There are no real signs of struggle here. I don’t think—”

She was stopped by a great cracking sound overhead. I glanced up just in time to see the lichen-patched trunk of a dead tree beginning to fall from the bank, and flung myself forwards, pushing her ahead of me and landing in an ungainly sprawl in the mud. As the tree crashed to the ground, splinters of woody shrapnel flying off in all directions, I was already struggling out of my pack and reaching for my dagger.

All around the clearing, heavily armed men and women sprung from the shadows, or rose up from the artfully arranged wreckage of that well-staged chaos. One glance was not enough to take them all in, but it did tell me how well and truly caught in this trap we were… and that was when I saw another figure rise up from behind the broken wagon. He was elven, but the points on his ears did not attract my attention as immediately as the slim, wicked dagger in each hand, his ornately tooled leather armour… or his heavily accented cry of command as, one hand scything through the air and signalling what I now took to be his men, he bellowed:

“The Grey Wardens die here!”

Great, I thought. Not so much of a change from being ambushed after all.

Half a dozen bows unleashed volley on volley of arrows, and the woman who had first approached us showed her true colours, wheeling around with hands drawn up like claws at the level of her stomach, the blue crackle of magical energy already spilling from her palms. She flung the first burst and we scattered to the smell of scorched grass and mud. I found my feet, adrenaline forcing me up on wobbly legs that seemed to know how to run, even if the rest of me didn’t, and for some reason I appeared to be heading straight towards the mage. I hunched my shoulders, dimly aware of an arrow scudding past my ear, and the familiar icy blast of Morrigan’s wrath rending the air above me—and, from the sound of it, causing one of the crossbowmen terminal discomfort—and cannoned into the woman with the full force of my weight.

She went over backwards, landing with a cry of pain and me astride her, smashing a curled fist into her jaw. She fought back, struggling to throw me off and fire some arcane bolt into my face. I caught her wrists, fought to keep her hands from doing their work. She writhed, cursed and clawed. Sparks blinded and burned as we tussled, her screaming part in rage and maybe even part in fear. She ended the scream with a wet gurgle and the dagger I’d managed to pull from my belt in her neck, her body turning limp beneath me as the life left her eyes and blood pooled beneath her, matting her blonde hair. I’d have started to feel sick, but a hot thread of pain bloomed in the back of my ribs and, rolling away from both the body and the agonising surprise, I found I struggled to breathe. On my knees, hand automatically going to the source, I felt wetness… blood. The yelling and the sounds of battle all around me seemed a little dimmer and, blinking muzzily, I could see a pair of fine leather boots before me, their well-polished finish spattered with mud.

I squinted upwards, and saw the fair-haired foreign elf looking down at me, bloody dirk in hand and a glittering smile—sharp as a sword-edge and just as hard—on his face.

“You bastard,” I managed.

His grin widened. “Nothing personal,” he said, just before he lunged in for the kill.

I moved, too: pitched sideways as fast as I could, lashed out with my dagger, aiming for the back of his leg. Unbalanced, he missed me, and ended up toppling forwards into the body of the treacherous mage. He snarled something that I had no doubt was a curse, but I was busy lurching to my feet and taking advantage of the opportunity to kick him as hard as possible in the groin while he was down. The curse became a full-blooded yell of pure male agony, and the elf balled up, clutching himself.

My armour seemed to have turned aside the worst of the wound he’d inflicted—I’d been lucky, I thought—but it didn’t protect me from the second assailant, who barrelled in from the right, sword scything towards me. I swore, ducked, parried, and found myself pushed back into the melee, fighting to the last inch. We’d taken at least half of them down, as far as I could see. Between them, Morrigan and Wynne were holding the path, for all their differences standing shoulder to shoulder, ice and light surging from twin staves. Leliana had snatched a piece of high ground; she stood balanced on the fallen tree meant to crush us, arrows flying from her bow with swift and terrifying accuracy. I saw at least one of the crossbowmen go down with a familiar flight protruding from his eye.

Sten and Alistair had cut a swathe through the others, though it was Maethor who came to my rescue as I faced the particularly wicked sword of one opponent. He grinned down at me—a broad-faced human with dark skin and bloodshot eyes, the thrill of triumph curling his lips—and I stepped backwards, preparing to meet the swing of his blade, but instead yelling as the jaws of a concealed trap clamped around my ankle, rendering me helpless. I fell into the piled up bracken and mud disguising the trap, wrenching my knee in the process, my eyes full of the sword about to swing down on me. There was a ferocious growl, and a blur of movement, then the human screamed wetly… and I winced. There are few more unpleasantly visceral noises than that of the dog who frequently shares your bedroll shaking a grown man by the throat.

Finally, silence descended over the clearing, except for the brief, horrible sound of Sten putting one of the would-be assassins out of his misery, and the clink of buckles and fitments as he paced the area, checking to see whether the remaining kills had been clean. I tried not to think about it, and focused on the pile of mud and debris I was sitting in, instead of the corpse’s leg draped across mine. My ankle was still stuck in the trap and, though the thing hadn’t fully pierced my boot, it was a less than comfortable experience, made worse by the fact I couldn’t pry its jaws apart, no matter how hard I tried.

“Um… hello?” I peered up, looking for assistance, and waved pathetically. “Help?”

Alistair, blood-spattered and sweaty, shook his head as he came over. “Honestly. Do you never look where you’re going?”

I pulled a face, and gritted my teeth as he hunkered down and wrenched the trap open, allowing me to wriggle my foot out.

“Ow. Thanks.”

“We should be careful,” Leliana observed, picking her way delicately through the clearing, eyes on the ground in front of her. “They’re likely to have set more. That looks like a tripwire….”

A little way ahead, at the foot of the bank, Sten held up a hand.

“This one is alive,” he said, nudging the prone body of the blond elf. “Their leader. They were no mere bandits… it may be wise to ask some questions before you kill him.”

I winced, limping a bit as I got to my feet and hobbled over, hand pressed to the flesh wound that had so narrowly missed my kidneys. Ashen-faced and tight-lipped, Wynne frowned at me.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’ll keep,” I assured her, peering at the others. “Everyone else all right?”

She had blood on her robe. It didn’t appear to be hers. The concerned, slightly disapproving frown deepened, and Wynne’s mouth crumpled reproachfully. They were fine… bloodied, tired, and a little surprised, but fine. That was good. I took a deep breath, and nodded.

“Right. We should, uh… wake him up. Find out what… um. Yes. Tie his hands. In the front,” I added, as Alistair knelt beside the elf. “Make sure we can see where they are.”

There was some brief scuffling, picking over the mess for a suitable bit of rope, and then the undignified business of hauling our prisoner up out of the mud and binding him. At first, I thought he wouldn’t wake; a gash to his temple, bruised eye, and blood all over his flamboyant, impractical armour would have fooled me, though his chest rose and fell to a regular, albeit weak rhythm.

He was a curious creature, unlike any elf I’d ever seen. The leathers he wore left his arms and legs partly bare, with heavily tooled spaulders capping his shoulders, and every inch of the chestpiece covered with intricate, scrolled designs. The fringe of plackets that ended his tunic was finished with delicate silver bevels that hung against his thighs… which were unabashedly bare, darkly tanned and very smooth. I blinked and looked hurriedly away. Heavily embossed, ornate boots and gloves in thick, dark leather stood out in contrast to his showy armour, and his flesh was smooth and supple, his body clearly unmarked by deprivation. His hair—that strikingly bright, fair hair—was soft and shiny, bound by two immaculate braids fastened at the back of his head, and one thin loop of gold hung from his right earlobe.

Where I came from, the only elves who paid as much attention to their looks as this were the pretty girls whose faces could be their fortune… and their undoing.

Our prisoner certainly did have the kind of face that couldn’t be forgotten in a hurry. Despite the blood, bruises, and slack-lipped unconsciousness, he was extremely good-looking; a honed, well-practised kind of handsome, I supposed. A full mouth, sharp, high cheekbones and clean jaw, long neck and well-set, strong ears… yet my eyes were drawn to the strange, dark marking that hugged the outline of his left cheek. Three sinuous lines, following the sculpted plane of his face: a tattoo, but unlike any I’d seen before. Usually, we only saw ink on mercenaries and thugs in the lower reaches of the market district, stamped like warnings on the kinds of people it was sensible not to make eye contact with.

I edged back then, allowing Wynne to lean over the elf. With that pulsing shroud of white light enveloping her hand—something I had yet to feel really comfortable around—she made a quick pass across his head, her palm not quite touching his skin. He stirred, flinched and mumbled, his thick, golden brows drawing close together as the gash on his temple knitted itself.

“He’s all right,” she said, straightening up and dusting her hands together.

Collectively, we tensed, watching as the elf came to.

“Mmm… what? I… oh.”

Those heavy, lazy-lidded eyes flickered open, and he cast a glance around all of us before fixing me with a slightly bleary—but exceptionally knowing—gaze. Odd, I thought, trying not to be distracted by the feeling that those light, golden-brown eyes could dance their way right through every thought in my head without me even knowing it. People usually looked at Alistair first.

Whatever he was, the elf was no mere hired blade. It did not comfort me that his mouth then curled into a sleepy grin, and he flexed a little, obviously feeling the bonds at his wrists and ankles, and testing them gently… apparently completely unperturbed.

“How interesting,” he said, in those warm, thickly accented tones, as if remarking on nothing more than a clement change of weather. “You know, I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case may be… but I see you haven’t killed me yet.”

He flashed me a disarming grin.

“That could easily change,” I said, mindful of the sore patch at the back of my ribs, and how very easily I could have breathed my last on the end of his dagger. “Right now, I have some questions.”

“Ah! So I’m to be interrogated?” He shifted against the bonds again, as if getting himself comfortable, the heels of those expensive boots making small ruts in the cracked mud. “Let me save you some time.”

My confusion must have been apparent, because his smile widened, and it flummoxed me completely. I couldn’t understand how someone who woke to find himself bound and surrounded by people he’d just failed to kill could be so blasé about it. Either he knew something we didn’t, or he truly didn’t care about dying… and neither of those options was terribly reassuring.

“My name is Zevran. Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens… which I have failed at, sadly.”

“Ye-es,” Alistair said dryly. “How terrible.”

Zevran shrugged, as best he could with his hands tied. “Eh, I suppose you would say that.”

I rubbed the back of my thumb across my forehead, trying to keep up. “Wait, wh…? Crows? What are—”

“I can tell you that,” Leliana said, looking down at the elf with a peculiar mix of respect and pity. “They are an order of assassins out of Antiva. Very powerful, and renowned for always getting the job done… so to speak.”

Wynne nodded. “Indeed. I understand they almost run that nation, and are hired only at great expense.”

“Quite right. I’m surprised you haven’t heard much of the Crows out here. Back where I come from, we’re rather infamous.”

“Oh,” I said faintly. “Good. So… hang on, you came all the way from Antiva?”

The sense of absurdity weighed in heavily on me. The staged carnage along the wooded path, the bodies that still littered the grass… the stink of death and dead flesh, and this strange, foreign elf, who could sit there and look so damned pleased with himself, while the blood was still wet on the ground.

“Not precisely,” Zevran said, wrinkling his high-set, patrician nose. “I was in the neighbourhood when the offer came. The Crows get around, you see.”

I didn’t, not at all, and I wished I felt as if _I_ was the one in control of this interrogation.

“Who hired you?” I demanded, determining to be forceful and brusque.

It had no impact whatsoever. Zevran simply quirked the corner of his mouth and gave me a look that—on anyone else—would have been the obvious feigning of wide-eyed innocence. On him, it was as far from innocent as black from white… in fact, it was positively obscene.

“Well, let me see… a rather taciturn fellow in the capital. Loghain, I think his name was? Yes, that’s it.”

My heart sank, disbelief warring with dread and nausea as I realised what that meant. This wasn’t just a bounty. It wasn’t even soldiers stirring up discontent with a few badly copied likenesses and the promise of a handful of coins. This was so very much worse than that.

“That treacherous bastard!” Alistair erupted, predictably. “As if it wasn’t enough to—”

He was sliding into a rant I’d heard too many times before, and I shook my head.

“—even _admit_ what he did, the two-faced—”

“You’re the regent’s man, then?” I asked, glaring down at Zevran.

He actually chuckled, which unsettled me.

“What? Ha! No. I have no idea what his issues are with you. The usual, I imagine. You threaten his power, yes?”

Those were emphatically not the words I’d have chosen. We weren’t a threat. We were stupidly lucky, maybe, but that was probably as far as it went. Still, one thick, golden brow curved above that heavy-lidded amber gaze, and I wondered just how much the assassin knew. More than he was telling, I’d have guessed. Zevran shook his head.

“No, I’m not loyal to him. I was contracted to perform a service, that is all.”

I nodded slowly. Well, we were headed to Denerim. Perhaps there was an advantage to be gleaned here.

“All right. When were you to see him next?”

“I wasn’t,” Zevran said glibly. “If I had succeeded, I would have returned home and the Crows would have informed your Loghain of the results… if he didn’t already know. If I had failed, I would be dead. Or I should be, at least as far as the Crows are concerned. No need to see Loghain then.”

Alistair gave an incredulous snort. “ _If_ you’d failed?”

Zevran flashed another of those disarming grins. “What can I say? I am an eternal optimist… although the chances of succeeding at this point seem a bit slim, don’t they?” He chuckled throatily, but the laughter faded into a frosty silence, and he sighed. “No, I don’t suppose you’d find that funny, would you?”

I crossed my arms over my chest, frowning grumpily at this strange, flamboyant creature. Even his elvenness was foreign to me… dressed up in fancy gear, primped and beautified, like the lap-dog servants Leliana spoke of in Orlais. I’d never knowingly met an Antivan, and I wondered if they were all like this, dripping with dangerous false charm and exoticism. Yet, he didn’t seem to laying it on that thickly. There was something else there… the naked indifference of a man who either truly believed he was already dead or, for whatever reason, didn’t care whether we killed him or not. Either a brilliant liar or a complete nutcase, I decided. Great.

Abruptly, the carrion birds lifted off the bodies behind us, their harsh calls and the flap of their wings grating against the trees. A clever trap, this, I thought… and very elaborate. I narrowed my eyes.

“How did you find us?”

Zevran looked mildly affronted. “Well, that would be my job, no? Or… part of it, at least. If you must know, we have been keeping track of you for several days. Your trail was hardly cold, after all. It was simply a matter of choosing the right time and place.”

A fleetingly wistful expression crossed his face, and I got the distinct impression he was making a mental note about having picked the wrong terrain or time of day. I frowned, but Alistair cut across before I got a chance to speak.

“All right, then… how much did that bastard pay you for our heads?”

“ _I_ wasn’t paid anything,” Zevran said, with the air of someone gently correcting a child. “The Crows, however, were paid quite handsomely. Or so I understand. Which does make me about as poor as a chantry mouse, come to think of it.” He shrugged. “Being an Antivan Crow isn’t for the ambitious, to be perfectly honest.”

Zevran stretched a little against his bonds, but with the air of a man lounging on the grass on a summer’s afternoon, rather than a captive wriggling for freedom. He peered at me and smiled dryly.

“But don’t let my sad story influence you. The Crows aren’t so bad. They keep one well supplied—wine, women, men… whatever you happen to fancy—though the whole severance package is garbage, let me tell you. If you were considering joining, I’d really think twice about it.”

There was something deeply unsettling about a man in his position who could crack a joke like that. A small, anxious frown pinched my brow.

“Right. Thanks. I’ll, er, bear that in mind.”

“Well, you seem like a bright girl,” he said cheerfully. “I’m sure you’ve other options. As a matter of fact, perhaps you’d care to discuss… options?”

“Do we want to discuss anything with him?” Alistair asked, suspicion twisting his mouth. “He did just try to kill us.”

Sten shifted, subtly but very noticeably, hands on the hilt of his large, heavy sword, the tip of its blade resting on a tussock of grass, the metal still marked with dull streaks of blood. My gaze flicked from the qunari to the prone assassin, and I had to admit I was impressed at the fact he barely missed a beat.

Zevran swiped his tongue across his lower lip and fixed me with a very sharp look, and the fleeting hint of an engaging smile. He flexed one shoulder in a small shrug, and arched his eyebrows.

“All right. Here’s the thing. I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That’s how it works. If you don’t kill me, the Crows will. Thing is, I like living… and you obviously are the sort to give the Crows pause. So, let me serve you instead.”

His words found a hollow, slightly stunned silence. I blinked, and looked at Leliana. She didn’t seem surprised and, catching my eye, nodded.

“As far as I understand it, what he says is true. The Crows operate a strict honour code. Failure is… not tolerated. It is why they are so successful.”

“Most of the time,” Zevran added helpfully. “But, not today, it seems, eh?”

That cheerful grin again. I felt as if I was watching the world slide away beneath me, like honey off a hot spoon, taking every ounce of common sense and normality with it. One thing I _did_ know for certain was that it would be exceptionally hard to kill anyone I’d exchanged this many words with. Perhaps that had been his plan.

Alistair snorted incredulously. “Marvellous. And we could expect the same amount of loyalty from you, could we?”

“I happen to be a very loyal person,” Zevran retorted, pouting slightly. “Up until the point where someone expects me to die for failing. That’s not a fault, really, is it? I mean, unless you’re the sort who would do the same thing. In which case I… don’t come very well recommended, I suppose.”

He chuckled happily, apparently pleased with little piece of self-deprecating humour, and glanced between the two of us, probably establishing the best way to play us off each other. I would have liked to think, coming from where I did, I was wise to his kind of bullshit, but that wasn’t strictly true.

Only once I’d left the alienage did I realise how sheltered Father had tried to keep me… from the worst points of our world, as well as the ones beyond the walls.

I sighed tightly. “Say we accept your offer. What do you want in return?”

“Well… let’s see.” Zevran’s gaze tracked slowly up my body, undisguised and unabashed. I scowled, and he flashed me a mischievous leer. “All right… being allowed to live would be nice, and would make me marginally more useful to you. And somewhere down the line, if you should decide that you no longer have need of me, then I go on my way. Until then, I am yours. Is that fair?”

I snorted. “You must think I’m royally stupid.”

He tilted his head to the side, those dancing eyes balanced on me like throwing knives, and I wasn’t sure if the gesture was more reminiscent of a bird or a snake.

“I think you’re royally tough to kill,” he said lightly, leavening the words with a smirk. “And utterly gorgeous. Not that I think you’ll respond to simple flattery. But there are worse things in life than serving the whims of a deadly sex goddess, no?”

“I— That….” The words faded into useless obscurity, cracking off my tongue as I realised, in horror, that I was about to blush, hugely and embarrassingly.

Some hours later, I would think of the comeback I’d wish I’d made: an icy glare and the calm, unruffled suggestion that, if he _really_ didn’t want me to gut him where he sat, he should watch his mouth. Unfortunately, at the time, all I managed was some mortified huffing, and quite probably a passable impersonation of a beetroot.

Alistair harrumphed into the prickly silence. “And why would anyone even want your… services?”

On reflection, it probably wasn’t the best choice of words. Zevran’s smirk widened into a broad, white smile.

“Why? Because I am skilled at many things, in addition to the fighting. I know twelve different card games, seven kinds of exotic massage, and plenty of stories for telling around the campfire. I could also warn you and your colleague should the Antivan Crows attempt something more… sophisticated… now that my attempts have failed.”

Zevran switched his attention back to me, eyebrow cocked and eyes glittering with mischief.

“Or I could simply stand around and look pretty, if you prefer. Warm your bed? Fend off unwanted suitors? No?”

I was painfully aware of the heavy glances on me, and the blush scalding my cheeks. I cleared my throat.

“N— er… no.”

He chuckled. “I like a woman who knows exactly what she wants, I really do. So, what say you? I’ll even shine armour. You won’t find a better deal, I promise.”

I looked around the clearing, at the faces of my uncertain companions, and at the bodies littering the ground, and the wreckage of the carefully laid trap we had so miraculously evaded. If there _was_ a next time, these Crows might be harder to escape and—though I hated to admit it—there was something coldly logical about using one of their own against them.

If I told myself that, I supposed I might come to believe I hadn’t been swayed by a big pair of brown eyes, and a whole lot of glib patter. I wasn’t that stupid, was I?

Zevran grinned winsomely up at me. Rather too winsomely, I thought, for someone potentially about to get a blade in the neck. Still… at this point, what did he have to lose? I sighed wearily.

“All right. Fine. You come with us.”

“What?” Alistair yelped. “Merien, have you lost your mind? You’re letting the _assassin_ tag along now? He just tried to kill us!”

Morrigan chuckled dryly. “She allows _you_ to tag along, does she not? What’s another cast-off to add to the collection?”

Alistair winced. “Ouch. That… I mean, it may be true, but… _ouch_.”

I leaned down and unknotted Zevran’s bonds. “You can walk between them,” I said quietly. “And if that doesn’t drive you to knife someone, you’ll have proved you’re on the level.”

He grinned again, and I helped him to his feet, feeling rather like the dowdy peahen beside a flamboyant and glittering male. There didn’t seem to be an inch of clothing, arms or armour on him that wasn’t decorated or tooled, and that wasn’t even touching on the curious, sinuous tattoo that hugged the outline of his cheekbone. Beneath the grime and sweat of battle, I also caught an odd, foreign scent… like the attars and oils they used to sell in the market. The deepness of roses, the headiness of musk, and the sharpness of spice.

I brushed my hand against my breeches and glanced at Alistair.

“Anyway, _you_ were the one who said we needed all the help we could get.”

He curled his lip. “Yes, but… oh, all right. Still, if there was a sign we were desperate, I think it just knocked on the door and said hello.”

Zevran beamed cockily at him. “Hello.”

I groaned. Not only was someone else dealing out the cards I had to play with, but the entire pack was made of jokers.

“A fine plan,” Morrigan said archly. “Although, if I were you, I would inspect my food and drink a great deal more closely from now on.”

Zevran cast an undisguised look of appraisal over the witch and nodded, apparently unfazed. “Very sensible advice… and all the sweeter when it comes from a beautiful woman.”

She sneered, baring her small, white, even teeth.

“Well, _I_ think it is wonderful to have an Antivan Crow join us,” Leliana said. “Welcome, Zevran. I am Leliana… pleased to have you with us.”

“Oh?” He arched one golden brow. “The pleasure is all mine, I am sure. I was not aware such loveliness existed amongst adventurers.”

The grin widened even further, and I decided that this was a man who could probably make ‘good morning’ sound lascivious. Leliana’s expression locked, the smile stiffening and fading.

“Or… maybe not.”

Alistair cleared his throat. “Well, there’ll be time for proper introductions once we get moving. We shouldn’t hang around here.”

I squinted back down the road. He had a point. There’d been little enough traffic—the quietness of this place probably the reason Zevran’s people had chosen it—but we’d burned enough daylight as it was.

“No,” I said. “We shouldn’t. We’ll strip anything we can use, clean up, and get going.”

For a moment, I almost sounded as if I thought I was in charge.

Zevran nodded sagely. “Very well. But allow me to make this official, yes?”

I didn’t understand what he meant, more occupied by the gnawing pain in the back of my ribs. He bowed low before me and—to my immense surprise—got down on one knee in the mud, head bent. He was like a picture in a storybook; one of those princely thieves humbled by a genie.

“I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation… this I swear,” he added, raising his head to fix me with those heavy-lidded, almond-shaped eyes.

“Er… thanks,” I said, faintly embarrassed.

Zevran got up, brushed himself down, and glanced around the clearing at the bodies of his men.

“So,” he said brightly. “Are we going to take their boots?”


	4. Chapter 4

Zevran’s addition to the group hardly made for an easing in tensions. To begin with, there was something incredibly strange, unsettling, and frankly unpleasant about clearing and stripping the assassins’ camp with the assistance of their erstwhile leader.

We did not steal their boots. Well, not all of them. There was a certain degree of liberating when it came to coin, rations, and small, portable items that no one was using anymore, and which could be sold or bartered next time we needed food. I didn’t feel good about it, but the kind of life we were forced to live then did not always allow for the comforts of simple morals and neat choices. I watched Zevran’s face as we laid the bodies out in the shallow ditch at the side of the road, covered over with as much loose earth and brush as we could manage. It wasn’t a proper send-off, and it wasn’t much for anyone, but maybe it would be enough to keep scavengers away for a little while. He seemed emotionless, as cold as if he was doing nothing more than stacking kindling. As we lowered the body of the blonde mage into the makeshift grave—the gaping wound I’d left in her neck now dark and sticky, its fleshy edges blurred, blood smeared and dry on her pale skin—he brushed the hair back from her forehead. It was a very brief gesture, so brief I almost missed it, but there was a familiarity there. It appalled and terrified me… all the more when I glanced at his face, and found it completely, utterly impassive.

Eventually, it was done. We moved on, the majority of the day worn away, and the sky growing grey and dim. As we left the wooded, dappled path behind us, the cover thinning out and the dirt track curving back up the rise of another low hill, it began to drizzle. Wynne had taken care of the wound to my back—and had not let me go without a lecture on how lucky I’d been, and a steely-eyed glance at Zevran—but it was still sore and, coupled with the cheery prospect of more rain, it was tempting to suggest making camp early.

I left it a little while longer before raising the issue, though, aware that Alistair was still fidgety over the length of time we’d been away from Redcliffe. Earlier, he’d been quizzing Wynne over how long she thought Arl Eamon had, now the demon was no longer sustaining him. She’d been evasive, soothing… said that the Circle mages we’d left at the castle were some of the best healers she knew. It was obvious that was no answer at all.

So, we were slumping along in silence, yet again, all keenly aware of the strange, foreign presence at our centre. Zevran, of course, seemed totally unconcerned. When I sneaked a few glances at him, he actually appeared to be smiling. I couldn’t work him out… and I didn’t know where to start trying.

“So, elf,” Morrigan said, those slate-hard tones breaking through the quiet as she turned that sharp gaze on him. “What is to keep you from poisoning your targets, now that you have been allowed to accompany us, I wonder?”

It was, unsurprisingly, a more direct accusation that most of us would made… even if we were all thinking it. Zevran just smiled graciously, inclining his head to the witch. A thin mist of raindrops clung to his fair hair, moisture glistening on his skin.

“You, I imagine. You will be watching me ever so closely to make sure I attempt no such thing, yes?”

She snorted. “And why would I do that?”

A rabbit rocketed across the churned road ahead of us. Maethor was too damp and lazy to do anything more than tense briefly, then huff and shake himself, droplets of rainwater flying from his short, brindled coat.

Zevran gave a disappointed sigh. “No? Ah, pity. Here I was becoming rather fond of the idea of you watching me closely….”

“Huh.” Morrigan sniffed, her staff stabbing rhythmically at the ground, pocking the mud in stride after stride. “It would be a simple enough matter to poison the food in camp. Or cut our throats while we sleep.”

“Truly?” He smirked. “You seem rather charmed by the idea, I must say.”

I shot a glance at Alistair, who shrugged and gave me one of those don’t-say-I-didn’t-warn-you looks, which irritated me briefly. I wondered what he’d have done if I’d suggested he cut the assassin’s throat. Would he have done it? Or would he have faltered? Would _I_ , for that matter?

Sten had been the only one not to voice an opinion on bringing Zevran with us. Of course, he didn’t have to; his silent disapproval radiated in a powerful aura.

Morrigan scowled. “It would seem an appropriate result of sparing your life.”

Zevran smiled genially at her. “Ah. Well, I am sorry to disappoint you. The next time I am spared, I will be sure to immediately turn upon my benefactors. Will that do?”

“Hmph.”

His smile widened out into a smug grin, and Morrigan stalked on, lengthening out her strides. If nothing else, I supposed having Zevran along might make for some interesting entertainment… yet I caught myself mentally siding with the witch.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

Distrust aside, I had to admit that I found Zevran intriguing—although possibly not quite in the way he evidently thought he was.

The combination of tanned skin and rich blond hair was exotic to me, and the burrs and lilts of his accent were unlike anything I’d encountered before—especially next to all that well-groomed flamboyance—yet his overt, worldly sensuality unnerved me.

I’d thought I would find it comforting to see another elven face, but I got no such reassurance from him. He was more Antivan than elven to me; foreign in every way, and a complete, dangerous antithesis to everything I knew from home.

Back in the alienage, we did see elves who’d made a living for themselves in the grey areas that edged the law. Often, they were the hired thugs of mercenaries or bootleggers, bitter and angry types who lived for coin and its fleeting comfort. Sometimes, they’d mouth off, upset someone… there’d be trouble, as there so often was. A sister or a cousin would offer up safe haven in their house, and more often than not Valendrian would find himself pulled into the middle of a dispute between the guard and some two-bit smuggler or offshoot of a thieves’ guild, all looking for the escapee. There would usually be a fight, or some kind of scandalous ruckus, and it never ended well.

Zevran wasn’t like that. He was altogether something more sophisticated… and that worried me.

It worried Alistair, too. We’d barely made camp for the evening—an early rest, like I’d hoped, given the stresses and strains of the day—when he buttonholed me, urgent concern written all over his face.

“You don’t really trust him, do you? The elf?”

I blinked, a little annoyed at the fact part of me prickled at that phrase, but I just shrugged, not really wanting to discuss it.

Home for tonight was a scrubby patch of grass at the edge of a meadow which had been recently scythed down, leaving it bleak and stubbly. A few thin, reedy trees clung to the hedgerow that bounded the field’s northern side, and brambles wound through them, yielding a sparse crop of sour blackberries. Leliana’s fingers were already purpled with picking them, and she’d been chattering enthusiastically about the jams and cordials they used to make at the chantry, back in Lothering. Immediately, Zevran had produced a wedge of fine, mature cheese from his pack, wrapped in waxed paper, along with half a loaf of bread, a quarter of a pound of cured beef, and a skin of sweet wine.

After the amount of salt pork, salt cod and mostly-rabbit stew we’d been eating, nobody gave a damn whether it was poisoned or not.

Now, as he held court by the fire Sten was building, a large part of me wanted to ignore Alistair’s concerns and get back over there before the cheese was all gone. I shifted uncomfortably. We were meant to be gathering enough dry wood to last the evening, not gossiping. Still, if Alistair was going to undermine what little authority I had, I supposed I should be grateful he was doing it in relative privacy.

“You think we should have killed him?” I asked, lowering my voice.

We were close to the hedge, the row of tents between us and the rest of the group, in their dense little hearth of firelight and, yes, laughter. Zevran was an effortlessly charming companion, it appeared.

Alistair frowned, the dimming light hugging his face in blurry tones of bluish grey. The days were getting noticeably shorter now. Less daylight… less _time_. Somehow, I doubted any of this would be over before winter came.

“Well… that’s not quite what I meant,” he said, a tad reproachfully. “But, that so-called vow of his? I don’t know. What if he _is_ just biding his time?”

I adjusted the bundle of firewood I had in my arms, the sharp ends of sticks poking into the bits of me not covered by my leathers. “Leliana seemed to think what he said about the Crows is true,” I said dubiously. “They’ll kill him for failing. So, if we’re the only thing standing between him and them, I’d say that’s a pretty good reason to stay loyal. For now.”

“‘For now’?” Alistair grimaced. “That’s… not exactly comforting.”

“No. I know.”

Neither was being told I was going to lose my mind to the siren call of the archdemon and die several miles underground, ripped apart by darkspawn, before I saw my fiftieth summer. But, I reasoned, as I let out a small, terse sigh, that wasn’t really Alistair’s fault… however much it still felt like it.

“I don’t think he’ll try anything,” I said carefully, glancing back towards the fire. “But, if he does… he’ll pay for it.”

“He almost killed you today.”

I blinked. Alistair’s voice held an odd, accusatory tone and, when I looked at him, he was frowning, all uncharacteristic solemnity and foreboding.

“If that blade had been an inch or two either way, or if you hadn’t—”

“But it wasn’t,” I said flatly, part taken aback by the strength of his concern, and part a little shaken by the realisation of just how many what ifs there had been on our journey so far.

Alistair gave a resigned nod and, stooping to snabble another bit of dryish wood from the brush, sighed. “All right. You… have a point, I guess. I still think he’s shifty, though.”

I tried not to smile, but lost the battle. “He _is_ an assassin.”

“Ha… yes, thank you.” He dropped the short branch onto the pile I was carrying, and pulled a face. “Goes with the job, I suppose. Even so, he’s a bit… well, you know. Isn’t he?”

I raised an eyebrow. “A bit what?”

Alistair shrugged and waved a hand vaguely. “ _You_ know…. The hair. The clothes. The… the….”

He faltered into silence, and I nodded sagely.

“Ah.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

Another burst of laughter wafted over on the cooling air, and my stomach grumbled at the promise of food and relaxation. Still, this one was too good to pass up. I hefted the kindling in my arms, the smell of damp bark and earth heavy in my nostrils.

“So… jealous, then, are we?”

“What?” Alistair turned to me, eyes widened in alarm, and shook his head fervently. “No! No, I… well… maybe a little.”

I didn’t really mean to let myself snort with laughter. He looked slightly bruised, and shrugged tightly.

“Doesn’t stop my concerns from being relevant.” He cleared his throat. “So, er, you don’t think he’s…?”

“A bit much,” I agreed, still smiling in amusement.

Funny thing, I thought, the male ego. Delicate, and easily pricked. Alistair looked faintly relieved, and we shared a brief grin at Zevran’s expense, which went a long way to patching any sore points that lingered between us.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

Despite everything that had happened that day—everything since Redcliffe, really—that evening was a pleasant change. We had a good fire, the rain had stopped, and Zevran’s luxurious provisions were a banquet by comparison to most meals we’d had.

He was insinuating himself nicely into the group, too; all that solicitous charm and flirtatious enquiry that greased the getting-to-know-you stuff along all the faster. Only Maethor remained fully reserved, lying by my feet and staring intently at the newcomer. He hadn’t growled, though, which I assumed was a good sign.

Over sharp berries, creamy, piquant cheese, and bread actually soft enough to chew, there was talk of the news Zevran had heard, and the rumours doing the rounds since Ostagar.

“Of course,” he said airily, fingers toying with the neck of the wine skin before he passed it on again, “I was contracted simply for a service. The… political ramifications were of limited concern. Ferelden is so much less—how would you say?—complex in that manner than Antiva. I can only tell you what I have heard.”

That was enough. Loghain had plenty of support in Denerim, apparently, and throughout the east, south-east, and parts of the north. The army was solidly behind him; obviously, to their eyes, he was the man who’d saved them from Cailan’s folly. They’d seen what had happened at Ostagar and—even if enough tales of bloodshed and carnage had yet to make it north of the Bannorn for people to believe the Blight was real—rumours were rife of darkspawn resurgence, and all-out war with the Wilders. I supposed that was reasonable. People saw enemies where they expected to see them and, with Chasind among the first to flee the oncoming horde, it would be with them that the tensions first erupted. They weren’t gentle people, either; I recalled what the elves I’d met in that damn village had said about Chasind sacking a farmhold.

Still, those were distant problems for Denerim, according to Zevran. The city was in uproar. I hugged my knees and watched him talk, pulse thudding as he painted pictures of outraged Fereldans taking to the streets, demanding to know what had happened to their beloved king.

“They seem to be torn,” he said consideringly. “Your King Cailan, he was popular. There is much grief… and a great deal of fear. He had no heir, I understand?”

I was preoccupied, thinking about what angry citizenry meant for the alienage—it was rarely good—but I still noticed the way Alistair stiffened, glancing warily at the Antivan. Zevran shrugged.

“I _did_ hear someone say it was a divine punishment for the temerity of placing a commoner upon the throne. Ah… you people have charming beliefs.”

“Anora’s the daughter of a teyrn,” Alistair said sharply. “Even if the family isn’t noble. And she’s been a good queen.”

“Perhaps.” Zevran shrugged. “Still, she does not rule now. They say she was… overcome with grief at her husband’s demise, and no longer leaves the palace.”

The fire guttered, and Wynne fed another few small pieces of wood into the flames.

“Hm,” she said: a small but very eloquent opinion.

“Overcome by Loghain, more like,” Alistair muttered. “People are really accepting him as regent?”

Zevran’s lips thinned and he cocked his head to the side. “I couldn’t say. They seem to. This Loghain, he is a hero. A mark of stability in a dark and changing world. Many embrace him, although a few appear to find his success… convenient.”

I frowned. “But people believe what he’s saying about the Grey Wardens? That we betrayed the king?”

He gave me a long, contemplative look, the warmth of the firelight softening his face, and making the tattoo on his cheek seem to shimmer darkly, like some kind of living shadow.

“Perhaps,” he said, the word thickly burred, rolling from his mouth like a promise. “Naturally, they are eager to have somewhere for blame to fall. An order until recently banished from the country, its headquarters in a distant, martial land? Yes, this seems good enough.”

Alistair snorted bitterly. “Huh. Discrediting the Wardens is one thing. Having us killed is just… rude.”

“It does seem as if he wants to be extremely thorough,” Leliana said thoughtfully, gazing into the fire. “To want you… removed… so badly.”

It was an interesting choice of words. I thought she was being diplomatic.

Morrigan—for once gracing the rest of us with her presence for a full evening, instead of retreating to some far-flung corner—curled her lip. “Hm. I assumed he had simply _met_ Alistair.”

Zevran chuckled throatily. Beside me, Wynne took a sip from the wine skin and passed it on. She nodded approvingly, confirming what I’d already noticed; she didn’t drink like an old woman.

I swigged, appreciating the fruity warmth and hints of honey, and a little reminded of the day I should have been married, when Father had poured coin into laying on enough booze to get the entire alienage legless. The day the streets should have been running with ale, not blood, I thought, surprised at my sudden mawkishness.

The assassin (or was he an ex-assassin now? I wasn’t sure. Zevran’s motivations, and any plans he had for the future, were mysterious unknowns.) eyed me pensively.

“Things are not always so simple,” he said, smiling amiably. “You, my dear, would be easy enough to bring into disrepute. An elven woman, new to the order, and given the circumstances of your conscription—”

“What?”

I almost choked on the wine, unaware that anyone would… but, of course, Loghain _would_ know, wouldn’t he? He’d taken Denerim, and all the rumours, the run-offs, the anger would be there, plain to see. And Zevran knew about it all. Obviously. What kind of assassin would not have researched his marks?

I felt dizzy, as if my flesh wanted to crawl off my bones. He was still smiling at me, a gilded, tawny figure, ominous in the firelight. He knew what I’d done… what I was. I didn’t know why I hadn’t expected it, but I hated the power it gave him, and I hated the unflinching, unreadable gaze with which he fixed me.

Something dark and complex flickered between us in that moment, and then disappeared like a spark dying on a hearthrug. Zevran’s smile widened, and I breathed again, for a few precious seconds believing everything was all right… until I realised that, if he knew about _me_ , then—

“But,” he went on, giving another small, feline shrug, “naturally, a potential heir to the throne… this is another story entirely.”

Either my sharp, desperate glare came too late to stop him, or he’d decided that it was too much fun not to proceed. Alistair’s shoulders slumped, at almost exactly the same moment Leliana sat bolt upright, and Morrigan’s face lit up with cruel interest.

“Heir to the—?” Leliana began, eyes bright, her bardic senses clearly quivering.

I shot Alistair an enquiring glance. He looked miserably at me, shrugged, and glared at Zevran, who affected the kind of apology usually seen on cats whose whiskers are still dripping with cream.

“Oh… have I perhaps said something amiss? Dear me. How terribly… unfortunate. My apologies.”

The edge of that full-lipped mouth curled in self-satisfied amusement, and I suspected he’d enjoy settling back and watching the fallout from that little bombshell.

“Yes, all right,” Alistair said wearily. “My mother was a serving girl at Redcliffe Castle. My father… was King Maric. I’m his bastard. _Not_ the heir to the— I’m not the heir to anything, all right? I just…. It really isn’t important.”

He stared morosely into the fire, jaw clenched, and winced when the inevitable torrent of surprise and chatter flooded around him. Most of it was Leliana.

“How thrilling! And there I was thinking it was Arl Eamon! That’s what the arlessa thinks, after all. There’s quite a lot of gossip, but none about a secret prince…. Alistair, it’s really too bad of you not to have said anything. If I’d known—”

“Er, yes.” He gave her a pained look. “That’s, um, sort of the—”

“—I would have—”

“—thing. People _don’t_ know. And I, um, I rather like that,” he added wretchedly.

Leliana gave him a look of total incomprehension, and he sighed.

“You knew, did you not?” Morrigan said, glancing at me. “You are unsurprised.”

“Well, yes,” I admitted, because I couldn’t lie with that hard, gold gaze latched onto me. “But—”

“And you did not think this could be turned to your advantage?”

“Hey….” Alistair began, but shut up when she shot him a viper-sharp glare.

“If his blood lends him a claim to the throne,” Morrigan went on, one pale hand extended into the dark air, “it also lends you grounds to depose this Loghain. Challenge him. Force him to unite behind you, or face a civil war.”

“Now, hang on. No one’s deposing anyone,” Alistair protested. “It’s really not— _I’m_ not….”

“Alistair is a Grey Warden,” I said firmly. “And Maric never formally recognised him. It’s hardly a strong enough position to challenge a man who’s already in control of the capital, the army, and half the country… and whose daughter is already on the throne.”

“Thank you! You see?” Alistair sat back, looking faintly relieved. “I said that. Didn’t I say that?”

Morrigan sighed tersely and shook her head, succinctly expressing the opinion that we were all idiots, without even having to bother to say it. Leliana was still gazing at Alistair, a peculiar look on her face, as if she was already writing his ballad in her head.

“You know,” she said, leaning forwards and widening those big, blue eyes. “There are many great tales of lost kings who return to their lands to reign in glory, and—”

“I am not lost,” Alistair said firmly. “Nor, for that matter, a king. And there is nothing glorious about me.”

Morrigan smirked. “That, you continue to prove most admirably.”

He glared at the witch; Leliana ignored her.

“You are Maric’s son,” she protested, voice ringing with the confidence of a woman who truly believed in the power of stories. “You _are_ the rightful king of Ferelden!”

Alistair squirmed, and a pang of sympathy tugged at me. Whatever kindness Eamon might have shown him once, he didn’t know whether to believe he was a lovechild or the result of a rape. I felt I ought to step in and say something, but I didn’t know what.

Around us, the night was drawing in, deep and cool. Something that might well have been a bat flew overhead, and the scent of damp earth hung strongly over this convivial little pool of light.

“Look….” Alistair shook his head incredulously. “I haven’t got any funny-shaped birthmarks, or a magic sword, or… any idea what I’m doing, half the time. I’m the— the unwanted by-blow of an indiscreet man who just happened to be king. I’m not meant to rule anything. Some days I have trouble figuring out which boot goes on which foot!”

It was an impassioned outburst, panic stalking beneath the words, but it didn’t stop Leliana’s starry-eyed onslaught.

“So?” She shrugged. “Complete fools are made leaders of kingdoms all the time, and _you_ are not a complete fool, Alistair.”

“Definitely debateable,” Morrigan muttered.

“I’m not? Oh. What an utter relief,” he said flatly.

“Anyway, you shouldn’t worry about the boots. Kings don’t need to dress themselves. You can have people for that,” Leliana added airily.

Alistair grimaced. “Wonderful.”

I glanced at Zevran, and hoped he was happy with the after-dinner entertainment he’d wrought for himself. He seemed to be. He caught my eye, and grinned knowingly; that smile like a white blade in the dimness.

Wynne cleared her throat. “Well, it is getting late. I, for one, intend to make the most of this welcome rest. We still have a long way to go, I believe.”

There was a general murmur of assent, and before long we all started to slope off to our respective beds. Morrigan made some dark comment about hoping everybody lived to see morning, and Zevran simply smiled.

Just beyond the circle of firelight, where the shadows tugged at the warmth of acceptance and wine-fuzzed comfort, there was a sliver of quiet. As the others went to their separate tasks, shaking out blankets and unfastening bedrolls, making for the inadequate privacy of their respective tents, I found myself passing close to Zevran, with his dangerous smile and his scent of leather and rosewater.

“That was cruel,” I said quietly.

He had his back to me, but he turned, one golden eyebrow curved mischievously. “Oh?”

I didn’t bother to expand upon it. He knew what I meant… and I thought I had the measure of him.

“Then I shall consider myself warned,” he said gracefully, inclining his head.

I bit the inside of my cheek, weighing reason against impulse, and was unable to fully separate the two. The question I’d wanted to ask but not dared—the only thing I’d really wanted to know, ever since this whole bloody business began—came blurting out, though I knew I should have held it back.

“What’s happening in the alienage?”

Zevran had the nerve to shrug slightly, as if he didn’t understand what I meant.

“Don’t,” I snapped, for that moment seeing only the points on his ears, and none of the foreignness that so lividly marked him. “You were in Denerim. You know what I— why I want to know.”

Those lucent, amber eyes narrowed a little, and I realised how deeply I would come to treasure the memory of kicking this man in the balls while he lay in the mud. The corner of Zevran’s mouth quirked.

“You know, the Crows bought me on the slave market when I was a child. Before that, I lived in a whorehouse. I have made it a point never to set foot inside alienages… and why should I? I am so rarely called there on business.”

Once the layers of difference were scraped away—the looks, the accent, the clothes, the crimes—I realised who Zevran reminded me of. My cousin Andar, who’d pushed me over the time I chipped my front tooth, then went screaming to Father when I punched him. And it had been _me_ who got punished, as I recalled.

My fingers itched with an old, familiar impulse.

“Please?”

The word ground itself out between gritted teeth, reluctantly. He smiled, as if he’d just scored a point. I supposed he had, though I didn’t like admitting it.

“Urien did not return from Ostagar. There is a new arl of Denerim… a man called Howe.”

I took a short, deep breath. The name was familiar… the one who’d paid for the spy at Redcliffe, wasn’t he? I nodded, and supposed at least it meant there would be less familial vengeance. Probably.

“What…?”

“I don’t know much,” Zevran said quietly, the pretences seeming to drop from his voice. “But there was a great deal of anger. There has been violence. Riots… a few murders. Parts of the district were shut off when I was there, maybe two weeks ago? My… source… reliably informed me that your actions had brought more excitement to the city than they’d seen since King Meghren was deposed. There are plenty of people who would like to see your head on a pike, too. But… you know this, yes?”

He tilted his head, looking at me curiously. My throat felt heavy, like I’d swallowed some indigestible, cold weight, rooting me to the spot. I folded my arms across my chest, jaw tight, and nodded sullenly.

“Mm. But there’s been no purge? No—?”

Zevran scoffed lightly. “My opinion? I do not think Loghain considers the alienage important enough to burn. But… Howe? I don’t know. Truth be told, like I said, I did not concern myself with these things. My job was merely to find you, and your handsome friend, and… well, you know.”

He flashed one of those pearly smiles, as if a dagger in the back was a minor indiscretion to be forgiven between friends, and that appeared to be all there was to it. I frowned, my head full of fire and stones hurled in anger, and blood on cobbled streets. I didn’t know whether to be pleased there’d been no official reaction, or terrified for what might have happened. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know how mean and vindictive my people could be.

I blinked, and hauled my gaze out of the dirt, surprised to find an artless, almost sympathetic look on Zevran’s face.

“As far as I’m concerned,” he said, a trifle flippantly, “you did them all a favour… though you could have been a little less dramatic, no? They say there was a river of blood running through the arl’s palace. That… well, frankly, that’s hardly subtle.”

I stared, dimly aware that he was making a joke of it. A joke of that day, when I had watched a girl I’d known since childhood die in her friend’s arms, simply for saying the wrong thing to a guard… when the same men had cut Nelaros down, and mocked him when they did it. The day I had stood there, in Vaughan’s chamber, human blood on my wedding dress, and watched three men raping my cousin, and laughing at her screams.

I sought something cold and cutting to say, some weapon with which to strike back at Zevran, but there was only one thought in my head: the memory of the moment Vaughan lay before me, bloody and still half-unbreeched, the scratches Shianni had made on his face and neck bleeding and smeared. Hadn’t been such an arrogant bastard then, had he? Green eyes darting for escape; a cornered rat babbling and begging for his life. The borrowed sword in my hand—a finer weapon than any I’d ever seen before or since—sang to me, calling out to cut that evil sod from ear to ear. I could have made it quick, couldn’t I? Swift, brutal justice. But I hadn’t. Pommel to the face, blood that gushed so warmly…. I’d wanted his balls. Wanted to let him die an incomplete man, crying and retching in agony, but time and a lack of experience had been against me, and I’d settled for twisting the blade in his gut, driving it deep home and watching the life ebb out of his eyes as he whimpered his last. I’d milked every ounce of pain out of it I could, and I’d made him see me do it.

I carried that with me still. I carry it today. It was murder, and it was wrong.

I suspect Zevran saw something of the story in my face. His expression shifted, a twinge of recognition or acknowledgement seeming to light his eyes. I thought he knew, anyway. Knew not just what I’d done, but the pleasure I’d taken in it.

Mortified, exposed… afraid, perhaps, I mumbled a goodnight and removed myself as fast as I could, wanting the seclusion of my tent and the forgiveness of shadows.

In the dark, I lay there with the blanket bunched up around me, listening to the sounds of the camp beyond the flimsy canvas walls. I wasn’t sure which was worse; thinking my family must have been dead, or knowing that they might still be alive, but that, if they were, they would be suffering for everything I’d done. And they would… I had no doubt of that. Suspicions all confirmed, fears all justified.

One thing was certain. I couldn’t just walk into Denerim… could I? And yet, I knew now that I had to. All the business of elusive scholars and mythical relics aside, I needed to see what was happening in the city, and get word to Father… if I could.

And, however unpalatable the thought, I had to tell Alistair the truth. I’d known I would, known I should have done it already…. Stupid of me to have put it off, I supposed, though I knew why I had. My ‘handsome friend’, as Zevran put it, was unlikely to look at me the same way afterwards… and that mattered to me, more than I could ever have imagined it would.

I frowned up at the roof of my tent—staring at the baggy bit of unevenly sewn seam that, before long, was likely to start leaking—and considered that fact. Eventually, a small, terse breath puffed between my lips.

“Bugger,” I mouthed into the darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

We broke camp early the next morning. The sky was rose-streaked, the long, golden bellies of fluffy clouds tinted pink against a pale sky. The air smelled clean and fresh, and it was cool on my face, dew misting on everything like a gossamer veil.

At one point, not long after we set off, I thought I could see Dragon’s Peak just on the edge of the horizon, and a mix of dread and excitement fired in me… but it turned out to be just another dark shape along the northern edge of the Southrons, a testament to my inexperience and lack of familiarity with the country out here. I didn’t even know whose lands we were crossing, or what the nearest town or landmark might be.

It brought into sharp relief how jumpy I was, and I wondered at the fact no one else seemed to have noticed. Of course, if they had, they hadn’t said anything. Conversation—which flowed a little better that morning, probably because we were well-rested and comfortably fed—mainly centred on the proximity of the Brecilian Forest, and idle speculation about the Dalish.

When Leliana asked him if he’d heard anything of the clans in these parts, Zevran nodded grudgingly. (Did she do that simply because he was elven? I wasn’t sure, and I was mildly annoyed with myself for contemplating it.) He said he had passed briefly through South Reach in the past week, where merchants spoke of the tribes possibly heading north. He wasn’t sure, he said, but it sounded sensible. The Dalish, just like anyone else, would want to escape the threat of the Blight and—if they were truly real, and truly lived wild on the land—it made sense that they would be acutely aware of the danger it, and they, faced. Or so I imagined. I was considering the fact I might as well have been pondering about pixies and fairy dust when that rich, burnished voice prodded me out of the thoughts.

“These treaties of yours, then…?” Zevran glanced curiously at Alistair, then me, eyebrows raised. “You intend to, what, raise an army?”

“We intend to gain support,” I said, a little stiffly. “Ferelden has to face the Blight united, or… well….”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Forgive me, but did the last Blight not take many, many years to defeat? A conglomeration of nations, a terrible war without apparent end… all that sort of thing?”

“Yes.” Alistair sighed. “Thanks. You’re a real ray of sunshine, aren’t you?”

The Antivan shrugged. “I merely recollect a little history. But… perhaps it is not a true Blight, hm? After all, such a thing has not occurred in so very long. Perhaps you are simply chasing a goal that is improbable, rather than suicidally impossible, and—what? I am being optimistic, no?”

“No,” Alistair said flatly.

Zevran pursed his lips and heaved a theatrical sigh. “Ah, well. Suit yourself.”

At about midday, we started to come up on a merchant’s cart, plodding along the road ahead. One fat human, his head wrapped in a silk-stitched cowl, sat on top of the cart, next to the man driving the big, solid pair of oxen. Barrels, boxes and bundles of goods were piled up on the back, and two other shems sat in amongst them, legs dangling down over the wooden sides of the cart. They stared warily at us as we crested the rise of the road, and one scrambled forwards to mutter something to his master, long before we’d actually neared them. Maethor barked cheerfully and wagged his tail, which probably didn’t make as good as impression as the hound thought it did.

Still, I supposed we did look a bit… unnerving.

“We could ask them if they’ve heard any news,” Alistair suggested, lifting a hand to wave to the cart, just as the driver cracked his whip over the beasts’ shoulders, and the rumble of axles working harder creaked distantly on the air.

The cart picked up a bit of speed, and the heavies sitting in amongst the goods hunched up, chins tucked deep into their jerkins and hands resting conspicuously on the weapons they probably had on their belts.

“Or not,” I said, glancing sidelong at Sten.

It was hard to tell, really, whether the sight of him was any more of a screamingly obvious signifier of trouble than Morrigan, with her feathers, warpaint, and Wilder rags… or whether it was the effect we had as a group.

I suspected the latter, and it was something we spoke of when we broke to rest by the roadside. The merchant’s cart had long since passed out of sight, and we’d seen little else except what looked like a guild messenger, huddled up in a hooded cloak, cantering past on a heavy brown horse. It reminded me of riding down to Ostagar with Duncan, and I thought wistfully of how impractical that kind of transport would be for us now… if we could even have afforded it, or had anywhere to find horses in the first place.

“I just think we’ll be… conspicuous,” Alistair was saying, perched awkwardly on a tree stump and levering a stone out of the sole of his boot with a twig. “Maybe we should think about, I don’t know, going in under cover of darkness, or… or—”

“In disguise?” Morrigan supplemented, arms crossed beneath her bosom and eyebrow arched disdainfully.

He shrugged. “Bann Teagan did say subtlety might be our best option.”

The witch snorted. “Then ’twould seem you are doomed before you begin….”

Alistair sneered at her and, the stone finally springing free of his boot, dropped the twig and brushed the mud off his hands.

“I don’t think you should go at all,” Leliana said firmly, apparently unfazed by the disbelieving stares suddenly directed at her. “Well? The two of you have a bounty on your heads. It would be much more sensible for us to make camp within a day or so of Denerim, and let someone else venture into the city.”

I saw what she was suggesting, and nodded slowly. “Ah-huh. Someone like you?”

“I would do it,” she said. “If need be.”

Zevran smiled widely. “Beautiful _and_ virtuous. I should have attended the chantry more often…. You know, the good sister makes a pertinent case. Walking straight into the lion’s den, so to speak, may not be the best idea. Particularly with so many such, hm, easily identifiable companions? Perhaps it would be better to, you know, delegate this particular—”

“We’re going,” Alistair said bluntly, and I knew why.

Oh, I’d seen the folded paper he kept thumbing. A letter, maybe, or a scribbled address, a name to which he could attach all that bright, shiny hope… this half-sister of his.

I felt a bit grubby thinking about it, after the way I’d seen into the dreams the sloth demon had made for him. I’d seen what he wanted, what he would have given anything for; the pretty woman with the long blonde hair and the well-swept cottage, and the apple-cheeked children. Blue-painted window sills and the smell of fresh bread. His dream had been strong enough to nearly drown me in it… and I worried over what would happen if reality didn’t quite match up.

Not that I had grounds for argument. Bounty or no bounty—assassins or no assassins—I was going into Denerim. Somehow. I needed to see the alienage, to at least stand by the market gate and squint across the bridge and see that it was still there, still more than burned stumps of wood and empty streets. I didn’t care if it was safe or not. I didn’t care if the guard jumped on me or if I was recognised and lynched in the square….

Well, that wasn’t completely true. I did. I was terrified, but it was a stubborn, hard-edged kind of terror that only made me more determined, that set the course of action ahead of us into a cold, clear stream of undeniable need.

Still… Leliana had a point.

“I, uh, suppose we could split up,” I said, eyeing the others cautiously. “The map shows a pass through to the forest, doesn’t it? About a day south of Dragon’s Peak? We could divide our efforts… make a quick sortie into Denerim, _and_ try to get word to the Dalish.”

It was probably better than eight of us rolling up in the marketplace and looking more obvious than a bad toupee.

Zevran nodded, long fingers rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. “Hmm. It _is_ a big city. Civilian clothes, the proper demeanour… you could disappear among the crowds.”

“You would walk, unarmed and unarmoured, into the seat of your enemy’s power?” Morrigan shook her head incredulously. “Surely ’tis better to wait until nightfall, creep in, and while you are there—”

“Oh, you’re not still on about the assassinating Loghain plan?” Alistair curled his lip. “What part of ‘very large palace’ and ‘extremely large number of guards’ was it you didn’t actually understand?”

She scowled, and drew breath to strike back, so I held up my hands and at least tried to intercede.

“Look… we need to find this Brother Genitivi. Best place to ask is either the market or the chantry, right? Way I see it, Zevran’s right. Just a couple more people in a crowd. If we’re in and out fast, there’s not so much danger of being caught, and if things in Denerim are as chaotic as you said….” I glanced at the assassin, faintly unable to believe I was quoting his opinion back, as if I actually trusted him. I shrugged. “I think it’d be all right. We shouldn’t need to go any further in than Rope Walk, anyway. I know that part of town.”

That was hopeless overstatement. Father had let Shianni and I do gate trade but, especially after what happened to Mother, there had never been any question of me wandering about the market district unattended, taking the kind of work that might have left me—as he had put it—vulnerable. I’d never been sure whether he was frightened for my virtue, or frightened of me opening my big mouth and getting myself killed, just like her.

Morrigan glared at me, and the painted shadows that framed her face seemed to dance, golden eyes glittering with outrage.

“You are insane.”

Sten grumbled in the back of his throat, his heavy brows shifting into a frown.

“It is all of limited relevance,” he said, eyeing me critically. “The darkspawn will head north. The lie of the land gives them nowhere else to go. They _will_ come, and you waste time that could be spent readying.”

I stared, nonplussed. What would he have had me done? Pile up sandbags and sharpen a few pikes?

We were still hugging the line of the West Road, still a group of ragged little outcasts darting for cover between the hills and the river, unsure of what we might run into, and as likely to fail now as ever before. Our position was tenuous, fragile… I shook my head.

“No.” I looked up, met those hard, violet eyes, and repeated the gesture. “No, it’s not wasted. The south has not yet fallen. If we can do this… well, whatever we do, we need the allies the treaties can provide us with. I think that’s the key thing. So… yes, we’ll… um. We’ll do that, then.” I set my jaw, determined to try and sound as if I knew what I was talking about, as if I truly had an iron conviction in the words. “Divide up. One group to Denerim, the other to the pass, and the forest, then regroup, and… see what we’ve learned. At the very least, we’ll know how Loghain stands in the city… and what we’re up against.”

Sten gave me a long, cold look, and I held it… admittedly not quite unflinchingly as I’d hoped to. Eventually, he snorted and, those massive shoulders lowering a little, turned away from me to squint towards the road.

“It is an… interesting strategy.”

I bit my tongue, scrappy shreds of anger and irritation tensing along my spine.

“I don’t see we have much choice.”

It wasn’t the end of the argument; it merely opened up the next can of worms. Morrigan took poorly to the idea of, as she put it, being dismissed on a pointless and implausible errand, and it was hard to tell her the way she looked, dressed and acted would have been enough to get us arrested before anyone even crossed the gates. I appealed instead to her experience of the Wilds, and said that if anyone could find traces of the Dalish clans, it would be her. We needed her, I said, and the faintest hint of smug pride touched the edges of her brusque, grudging acceptance.

Wynne had stayed quiet throughout the entire slanging match, though she deigned to offer an opinion. She knew little of Denerim, she said, and would be happy to brave the pass. I was grateful for that, thinking her influence might calm tensions, and mean Morrigan and Sten wouldn’t actually have ripped each other to pieces by the time I saw them next.

Leliana, by contrast, was determined that Alistair and I should not go alone. She still had her Chantry robes, she said, and was already merrily plotting an entire, elaborate subterfuge to track down the missing Brother. Her enthusiasm unnerved me.

Zevran offered to come into the city too, and that presented a problem. If it was a choice between having him where I could see him and letting him run loose, I’d have preferred the former, but allowing him free rein in a crowded market?

Morrigan snorted. “Oh, yes. A _fine_ idea. A knife to the back before he disappears into the throng… or perhaps delivers you to Loghain alive, and ready for whatever ingenious tortures the man can construct.”

The Antivan narrowed those golden-brown eyes, and his lips curled into a sensuous smirk as he regarded her lazily.

“Madam, you wound me. Truly. But… I admit, in other circumstances, it would be a good plan. Better than the original one, in fact.”

I groaned, and looked at my boots, as if clarity and salvation might wait in the dried, pale smears of mud.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

So, it was… not so much decided, as a compromise achieved through the congealing of conflicting opinions. By nightfall, we were too tired to keep arguing, and an ill-favoured, graceless kind of consensus hung over things.

Within the next two days, we would split off; Zevran, Morrigan, Sten, Maethor and Wynne would head for the pass through the Southrons, leading them to the northern neck of the Brecilian Forest, and the last traces of civilisation before it. Alistair, Leliana and I would press on towards Denerim.

Somehow, I hadn’t really expected her to be coming with us. Silly, of course. A part of me felt uneasy with it, and I wasn’t sure why. Possibly, it was something to do with the fixed little smile she had when she talked about how exciting it would be. Alistair just nodded and looked very slightly tense around the eyes… and eventually we all fell silent again.

I took refuge in the repetitive business of making camp, stomping through damp bracken and gathering firewood, and glad of the fact no one expected me to speak. Maethor put up a hare, and it fought back, kicking him in the eye before he lunged and took the back of its neck out. He deposited it proudly at my feet, wagged his tail and, head cocked to the side, whined… as if he knew I wasn’t at my best.

I patted his flat bullet of a head, and he shoved his muzzle into my palm. It was still unpleasantly wet and sticky with blood, and I absently wiped my hand on my breeches as we walked back to where the tents were going up—those familiar dark points against a cooling, encroaching dusk. We’d come far enough north for it to feel a bit warmer, which I supposed was something, though there was still that undeniable autumnal chill, presaging the changing seasons. Not for the first time, I wondered if we’d still be doing this—this endless, muddy traipsing across the countryside—when there was snow on the ground and ice on the trees, but I pushed the thoughts from my head.

There were other things I had to deal with tonight… and I had no idea how to do it.

I meant to find Alistair later on, after supper, once everyone was settled for the evening. I didn’t know what to say, though I knew I _did_ have to say it—preferably before Zevran did.

As it turned out, Alistair found me. I was sluicing out the cookpot at the edge of camp, the fire a thin echo behind me, and shadows swaddling the muddy ground. He cleared his throat, announcing his presence, and I glanced over my shoulder, registering the familiar shape. I didn’t really even need to look to know the campfire’s light would be picking out thin streaks of gold in his hair, or that the broadcloth shirt he wore—growing increasingly threadbare with each passing day—would be partly unlaced at the neck for the sake of comfort, after all that time he spent trussed up in armour. The stuff Owen had fixed him up with back at Redcliffe was hardly heavy plate, but he still looked smaller without it… younger, maybe. It had been easy to forget there probably weren’t more than a couple of years between us.

I straightened up, and smiled tentatively. The last time he’d wanted to talk to me, I’d heard things I’d rather never have known. I hoped this wasn’t going to follow the same pattern.

Alistair gave me a concerned, confused frown. “Are you all right?”

“Hm? Yes. Yes, I’m… it’s fine.”

He didn’t look as if he believed me. I shifted my weight, and accidentally clanged the cookpot with my foot. I glanced down at the thing as it wobbled, and stepped to the side, as if I could move away from my own clumsiness. I wasn’t fine, and neither was anything else… but there were certain things we didn’t have the luxury of changing, so it seemed pointless to complain.

“You know, if you need to talk, it’s—” He broke off awkwardly, and shrugged. “Anyway. I guess I… um. Denerim, right?”

I tensed. He was going to ask me, wasn’t he? He’d want to know what Zevran had meant about the events of my conscription, and I was going to have to bloody tell him. My mind raced, struggling to keep ahead, and I nodded slowly.

“Uh-huh.”

“Leliana seems to be taking it very… seriously. Is it wise to take her with us?”

Was he challenging me? His expression was earnest, sincere, as if he actually wanted to know what I thought.

I wrinkled my nose. “Look, if you disagree, Alistair, you’re more than welcome to take charge. I never—”

In a second, the sober sincerity melted into a wide-eyed grin and, apparently aghast, he shook his head.

“Take charge? What, _lead_? Me? Noo-ooo. No leading. Bad things happen when I lead,” he added, edging closer and affecting an ominous, conspiratorial tone. “We get lost, people die, and the next thing you know I’m stranded somewhere—without any pants.”

And there, in one moment, he pushed things from the tense concerns of leadership and duty, out to the utterly absurd… and I was so grateful for it. I spluttered with laughter, and Alistair looked triumphant.

“Best not, then,” I managed, once both the giggles and the faintly disturbing mental image had subsided. “That _would_ attract attention.”

He grinned afresh. “Well, not to boast, but—”

“Leliana seems keen,” I said briskly. “About going, I mean. And if she can ask at the chantry without arousing suspicion… maybe get a look at some records, that would help, wouldn’t it?”

Alistair nodded thoughtfully. “True. It’s just— well, I don’t know what to make of her sometimes.”

She’d pinioned him with religious debate again, I suspected. Maker only knew what she was trying to prove, or what she wanted to get him to say.

I allowed myself a small smile. “She’s a very, uh, persuasive woman.”

“You think so?” Alistair looked mildly uncertain. “She’s… well, she’s more than she seems, definitely. I think she was a bard, back in Orlais. It makes sense—and she certainly didn’t pick up those skills in the cloister.”

My brow furrowed. “Bard? I mean, yes, she said she was a minstrel, but—”

“Not the same thing,” he said cryptically. “In Orlais, bards are… different. Spies, envoys… assassins, sometimes.”

I stared, aware of my lips parting slightly, my confusion undisguised. Alistair shrugged.

“I don’t know. Just thinking aloud, I guess. Sometimes, you look at her, and she just looks so… sad. I feel kind of guilty about taking her away from the life she had in Lothering.”

It occurred to me to point out that Lothering was probably either buried in disease and chaos or full of darkspawn by now, but I didn’t say so.

“Soft touch,” I teased.

He grimaced. “Oh, fine. Stomp on my one little feeling. I just… find it hard to reconcile what she can do with the things she says. And that so-called vision of hers…. Even the Chantry believes that most claims of visions and such are usually people’s minds playing tricks on them. Wishful thinking at best.”

A soft breeze rippled through the camp, and somewhere an owl hooted. Maethor, lying sprawled out by the fire, rolled half-over and raised his head to give a small, sleepy huff of warning… just in case the bird should be tempted to intrude.

“And what do you think?”

Alistair shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m not sure what I think.”

“Well, _she_ certainly believes in it.”

“Hm.” He gave me a considering look. “That she does.”

Something a little unsettling lingered in his face. I wasn’t quite sure what it was until I realised that was still looking at me… still looking _for_ something. I raised an eyebrow.

“You, er, didn’t want to talk about Leliana, though. Did you?”

He said nothing, and just kept looking at me, that hazel gaze unshakeable and unmoving. He didn’t push, didn’t demand… I could have told him to get lost, or pretended I didn’t understand what he meant, right up until the point he folded his arms across his chest and, tipping his head to the side, lowered his voice. The words were soft and small, and broke me a little bit.

“No. You’ve been… different, these past few days. I’d, uh, quite like to know what’s wrong. Maybe I can help.”

I nodded hollowly. Of course he’d say that. It stung.

“Denerim,” I said, as if that could explain it all. It didn’t, obviously. I sighed, and glanced back towards the rest of the camp.

No one was likely to overhear us, to wander over or blunder in. Still, it wasn’t privacy enough. I rubbed a hand across my mouth and looked up at Alistair, taking in the strong, even lines of his face, so clear and honest so much of the time, as if he was actually incapable of deceit. That wasn’t true, of course—he’d lied to me before, and he hid shamelessly behind that flimsy façade of idiocy even when he didn’t need to. It bothered me, to a degree, though I understood it. We all had our defences, the shields—and the weapons—we put between ourselves and the world.

I just wasn’t sure I was ready for mine to slip this far.

“Did… um, Duncan ever say anything about how he found me?”

I took a few steps back as I spoke, edging that little bit further from the camp and the firelight, and towards the shadows that lay between us and the road. The land curved away slightly, enough brush and trees to guard our presence from the immediate notice of any travellers who might pass. The soft current of a breeze chased over my face, stirring my hair from my shoulders.

Alistair shook his head. “Not really. His note arrived the morning before the two of you did. All it said was that you were last recruit he was bringing… that you were an elf, and from Denerim. ‘A young woman of great resilience and strength,’” he added, with a touch of faint reverence for Duncan’s words, and a slightly amused warmth. “He thought highly of you, you know.”

“Oh.”

I hadn’t known he’d said that. For some reason, it made this harder. I blinked, and stared at my boots, dimly aware of Alistair closing those few feet I’d put between us, ambling casually over to me.

“Well… thing is, I was in some trouble with the guard.”

“Oh?”

And there it was, starting. That change in intonation, the surprise and incipient disapproval, coloured over with the same attitude I remembered him having towards Daveth. Alistair shrugged, evidently hauling some forgiveness out for this scrap of a creature Duncan had, for some reason, put his faith in.

How magnanimous of him, I thought bitterly.

“Well, that doesn’t really matter,” Alistair said, managing to sound reasonably genial. “Once the Right of Conscription’s invoked, they can’t touch you. And I’m sure, whatever happened, there are probably bigger things to—”

“I killed someone,” I said, my voice a dry, curiously dispassionate thing, and frowned, almost as if I was trying to recall the last item on a misplaced list. “Several… actually, yes. Several people.”

Ashamed, I buried my gaze in the dark grass, hands hanging uselessly at my sides and a silent farewell bade to the easy, comfortable way we’d been talking not minutes before. I heard his intake of breath, and then silence stretched out in the darkness.

I regretted it, this bitter and pallid truth. Much better to have kept it to myself, kept my secrets and just prayed nothing bad happened when we got to the city. Why in the Maker’s name had I worked up this need to share it, to ruin everything?

“What?”

The word was a taut, sharp exhalation, not a question. Maybe Alistair didn’t believe me… maybe he was already appalled. I took a deep breath of night air, tainted with wood smoke and the lingering smell of stew. I couldn’t look at him. Memories I’d tried so hard to choke down, to push to the farthest pit of my mind, began to claw their way out of the darkness once again, climbing past all the monstrous things I’d seen and done since that day. Guardsmen with bloody swords and contorted faces stretched out to me from the shadows, obscenities on their pale lips.

“I never meant to,” I murmured, slightly petulant. “I should have been able to stop it, never let it get so far…. I— I let everybody down.”

Great, now I wasn’t even making sense.

“Er…?”

I glanced up—didn’t mean to, instantly regretted it—and saw the hurt confusion, the lost look of a man floundering beneath an unexpected weight. Alistair’s eyes had darkened, his mouth a hard curl of bewilderment. I sighed and shook my head, right arm moving defensively across my body to take hold of my left wrist, thumb rubbing a nervous strip on the bare skin. I wanted to prove I could feel it, I suppose, to keep some physical anchor to that moment, that place… even if I couldn’t hold his gaze.

“You, uh, you remember I told you I was betrothed?”

“Uh… huh.” Alistair nodded slowly, obviously not understanding how my arranged match connected remotely to me killing anyone—not that I could really blame him.

“Mm. It was meant to be this huge… great big _thing_. Double wedding. My cousin, Soris, was getting married too. Father paid for everything. Music, flowers, drink… the whole alienage was out there. That was what Duncan walked into, that day. Recruiting. Turned out he knew our hahren,” I added, declining to mention that he’d said he’d known my mother. If only there’d been time… time to ask all those damn questions. I shrugged. “So, uh… I don’t know. There was a lot of drinking, dancing… music. I guess that was what brought _them_ down there.”

“Who?”

Alistair’s voice prodded at me through the memories. The dappled light that came through the vhenadahl, the strains of dirty limericks and cackling laughter on the breeze… the feel of someone spilling half a flagon of ale down the back of my beautiful new dress as I pushed my way through the crowd. Someone, somewhere, coaxing a scratchy tune out of a fiddle.

“Some, uh, lordlings from the hill,” I said reluctantly, stomach clenching on the recollection. “Noblemen’s sons.”

I didn’t want to taint the memory with _his_ name, and it passed my lips as a thickened, sour word.

“Vaughan. Um. L-Lord Vaughan… the Arl of Denerim’s son. He… he brought some friends with him. Wanted to… take his right with the brides.”

My gaze slid to the dark grass again, and I knew I hadn’t kept the bitterness from my voice. Alistair let out a short, disbelieving breath.

“Wait, what? He…?”

“Things got out of hand,” I said quickly, not wanting to dwell on the details of the injustice. “I could have stopped it, tried to defuse things, but…. It all went wrong. Turned ugly. They… took us up to the arl’s estate. Both brides, and the bridesmaids. There were five of us. One of the girls resisted. They… killed her.”

I closed my eyes, hugged my arms around myself as I tried not to remember Nola’s gurgling death rattle, and the finger-shaped bloodstains on her pale cheeks as Arith cradled her head. The smell of that poky, damp little cell seemed to force itself into my nostrils, and my breathing quickened, my lungs trying to outpace the stench.

“They separated us, took the others away. Soris and my betrothed, Nelaros, snuck in to rescue us. Duncan lent them weapons,” I added, an earnest hint of pride… as if it justified things somehow. The words flew light and fast now. I wasn’t sure if they all made sense, but it seemed important that they came out. “The guards killed Nelaros. He was just… lying on the floor, his head was….” One hand broke free, shaking a little as it went to my neck, to the pendant and ring I wore, clammy fingers touching the thin circle of gold. “He made this for me. I took it off his body, once those bastards were dead. Because… because we couldn’t take him with us. Or Nola. They should have… should have been taken care of, but we couldn’t. Guards, everywhere. We had to find Vaughan’s rooms, but… but we weren’t fast enough.”

The words were no more than a whisper, an expressionless husk around the twisted grain of a memory. I squeezed my eyes even tighter shut, until the darkness behind them was blotched with bright blue, but it didn’t stop the pictures coming.

Part of me knew we were still in camp, but the air felt cold around me, the faint sounds of night creatures in the grass and soft wind in the trees foreign and threatening.

“Soris’ sister, Shianni… my cousin. She was meant to be my bridesmaid. Sh-she’s younger than me,” I murmured, hearing the odd, tight tone my voice had acquired. Altered, somehow, almost like an awed whisper. I didn’t like it. My eyes flew open to demand justice, to force understanding from an unfeeling bastard of a world, even if I couldn’t string the words together to ask for it. “She… she wasn’t…. There were three of them, and she… she just kept screaming, and they… they laughed. The whole time, they just… laughed.”

The look on Alistair’s face caught me off-balance, all appalled outrage and raw hurt. There was a little part of me that was still confused, that still didn’t realise a shem could be so moved by a story like mine. My eyes stung, and my fingers clenched on the ring, driving its outline into my flesh as my throat spasmed and choked around the weight of tears I refused to shed.

“Maker’s blood, Meri….”

Had he called me that before? The short version of my name was an odd, refracted echo of home, placed in an unfamiliar mouth, but not all of me was there to hear it. And, somewhere, Shianni was still screaming.

“He… he offered us money,” I said hoarsely. “That… whoreson _bastard_. F-forty sovereigns, to just… walk away.”

The revulsion in Alistair’s appalled wince was a comfort. I sniffed wetly.

“Soris said we’d talk, that we’d tell the whole city what he did… but he said it wouldn’t matter. He said,” I added, glaring into the shadows, and the twisted, violent faces they held, “that no one would care about elven whores. That he was only… ‘using animals as they were meant to be used.’”

I enunciated the words carefully, the memory of Vaughan’s arrogant drawl still so fresh, so painful. They cracked beneath me, and hot, humiliating tears splashed my cheeks. I reached up, scrubbing impatiently at them with the heel of my palm.

Alistair’s face was blurry, but I heard his short, tight breath, and I felt him reach out, felt the tentative weight of his hand on my arm. It was nothing more than the ghost of a touch, as if he didn’t know whether it was welcome, torn between the desire to console, and the fear of making it worse.

I wanted him to, I realised. To touch me. I wanted warmth, security. Solidity. Instead, he drew away again, and I felt the loss as a physical hurt, an ache that ran deeper than I expected.

“He’d have killed them,” I murmured, dragging my gaze out of the dark, forcing myself to look at the man before me. “All of us. Out… out of spite, or just because we didn’t matter. He’d done it before. I didn’t want to fight, but… we did. And I killed him. Me ‘n’ Soris, we— we killed them.”

Saying it made it feel real all afresh, and I had to stop myself from allowing my lips to keep framing the words over and over again. _We killed them_. Had it been luck, or fate, or some kind of curse? A dim, grating whine at the back of my mind kept telling me it would have better for so many people if Vaughan had won that fight. Even unjust balances are sometimes worse for being upset. But then there was the Blight, wasn’t there? The darkspawn, and this great, sacred duty I was meant to have. Meant to care about.

I blinked, my lashes matted and damp and my eyes stinging, and tried to make myself remember all the things that had happened since that day. I’d come so far, seen so much… and to think, I’d worried once about losing my memories of home.

“What happened to the girl?” Alistair asked softly. “Your cousin. Was she—?”

I frowned up at him, momentarily dislocated and confused. A white, freckled face with swollen, black eyes and bloody bruises danced in my mind. Beaten and torn to pieces, and she’d thanked me. Told me she loved me. My chest seemed to twist, to fold in on itself like the wings of a bird, as if sheltering from the sheer weight of the pain.

“Shianni? We took her home,” I mumbled glassily. “The others, too. She was… hurt. He— well.” I sniffed curtly, done with the crying, tears drying to a thick, snotty weight behind my eyes, my throat aching and tight. “Of course, she’ll never find a match.”

Alistair’s brow creased, incomprehension added to the clouds on his face. I didn’t want to have to spell it out but, at the same time, I drew a vile kind of satisfaction from it; something too perverse and ugly to be called pleasure. It felt… right… to see the horror on his face, simply because he was human, and shems never knew what they did to us. Had I been thinking clearly, I’d have reminded myself they never knew because we kept our customs and traditions to ourselves, jealously guarding the standards we had and the ways we bound our people with them. Why _would_ they know? Why should _he_?

“He ruined her,” I said resentfully. “Took her honour. We… we’re big on that. Marriage is the start of your life. A good match is everything, and a girl has to be… y’know.” I shrugged. “No man’d want her now. That bastard saw to that. _And_ he was human.”

I saw the look on Alistair’s face—all mortified revulsion, like I’d just said something truly barbaric—and he seemed to struggle with the question he already had his mouth half-framed around, and the realisation that he probably shouldn’t ask it.

“But— no. Sorry. I…. I mean, that hardly seems… fair,” he finished lamely.

He was right. It wasn’t. Yet the righteous, defensive fire of anger flared in me. It was _our_ kind of gross unfairness, and we had a right to it. The stupidity of that struck me even as I started to glare at him, and I felt lost, rootless… shaken.

“It’s how things are. Vaughan… spoiled her,” I muttered awkwardly. “And even if it hadn’t been… like it was… it’s still— It’s… dirty to go with shems.”

Stiff, difficult silence pooled around those words. I frowned at the grass and the mud, and felt the almost physical waves of Alistair’s discomfort lap around me.

“Oh,” he said, eventually.

I flexed my shoulders in a tight, resigned shrug, still staring doggedly at the ground.

“I… I think she’ll heal, in time, but… no man worth having would take her. Not the way we do things. So, she’ll be a child forever.”

An odd, absurd thought pricked me, the way it had once before, as I left Denerim behind me for the first time. I lifted my head.

“Huh. _I’m_ a child. I’ll never… I mean, not after all of this. Nobody would—”

I broke off abruptly, choked back the words that sounded so like self-pity. It didn’t matter. I didn’t belong there now, anyway. I was barely elven anymore… like Zevran, I supposed. Foreign and adrift, as much of an outsider as any of us.

Alistair looked gravely at me, the bluish grey of the night air honing the lines of his face, cloaking his eyes in folds of shadow.

“So, uh… the guard caught you, then?”

I nodded. It was near enough true. “Mm-hm. There was nowhere else to go except back to the alienage. The garrison didn’t waste much time. I did try to— I didn’t let them take Soris. He stayed out of the way, and I… I would have gone,” I murmured, the breath leaving me in one long, miserable sigh. “I would have paid. I _would_. But Duncan was there, and he… stepped in. Next thing I know, it’s fast horses and open country, all the way to Ostagar. I’ve been trying to find out what happened back home ever since.”

That gentle breeze rippled across the brush-strewn clearing again, trees and unkempt bushes whispering in its wake, and I rubbed absently at my wrist. From the way Alistair was looking at me, I suspected he was busy piecing things together… recalling the bruises on my face and that hunched, wide-eyed air I’d had when we first met. It felt like a lifetime ago.

“Zevran says there’s… unrest,” I said carefully, not meeting Alistair’s gaze. “Arl Urien didn’t come back from the south, so this man, Howe, is the new arl. Loghain’s man. There’s been no purge, but—”

“Purge?” Alistair echoed, confused.

I looked wearily at him. “It’s what it sounds like. The alienage gets too out of line, we get slapped down. People… disappear. Houses burn. Soldiers come, and we end up bleeding. Father said once, under King Meghren, they tried to burn the vhenadahl.”

His frown deepened; he obviously didn’t know what a vhenadahl was, and he probably didn’t believe what I’d said about the soldiers. I sighed. I’d got so used to Alistair being brighter and shrewder than he pretended that it was easy to forget there was a genuine core of innocence there, sheltered and puritan and so readily shocked by the most surprising things.

“It’s a big tree.” I gesticulated vaguely in the air. “In the middle of the alienage. Supposed to represent… our heritage, or… something. The point is, there would have been repercussions. Punishments.”

He still looked confused. “You mean, they can do that? Surely the guards can’t just march in and start—”

“The whole alienage is human-owned, Alistair,” I snapped. “We can’t own property, inherit land… join the guard, or the army. We don’t haverights, and we don’t expect justice.”

He winced, expression tightening like I’d just scalded him, and I was annoyed at myself. I didn’t want him to pity me. I didn’t want to be stained with his guilt or embarrassment… and I didn’t want to draw this out into politics. Yet I couldn’t let it go.

“Anyway,” I said brusquely, hunching my shoulders, “that’s it. I should probably have said something before. I… apologise.”

“Don’t. Don’t,” Alistair repeated, shaking his head. “I-I… I mean, I had no idea that—”

“No.”

He hadn’t, because I hadn’t wanted him to. And now I didn’t have any choice in the matter. The silence that bloomed between us was itchy and unyielding, and I sought a way to break it.

“I, er, don’t know if it _will_ affect anything,” I said, scuffing my boot in the grass. “In Denerim. But… if—”

“I won’t let anything happen,” Alistair said, quite suddenly and abruptly, and the words were full of honest hopefulness, as if he wanted to try and patch up the torn scraps of my past with some gesture of… what? He looked at me in the dimness, that muddy, gold-flecked gaze all faith and apology, his lips curled into an uncertain pinch that, gradually, became a strangled sort of smile. “Anyhow, if we keep our heads down, try not to be noticed… I’m sure it’ll be all right. We’ll find your family.”

I lowered my gaze and nodded. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him resemble Cailan so much. A thought crossed my mind, and I looked up, returning his smile with a sickly one of my own.

“And yours.”

“Hm?” Nervous doubt flickered over Alistair’s face. “Ah. Yes.”

My smile widened. So… ready to fling himself at the entirety of the Denerim guard—and possibly Loghain, too—but terrified of meeting his own flesh and blood? I cocked an eyebrow.

“S’only fair. You watch my back in front of the garrison and the alienage… I’ll watch yours when we find your sister.”

He grimaced at the last word. “You know, that still sounds strange. _Sister_. Sis-terrr….”

He rolled the word around his mouth, clowning for me again, and I chuckled, floating lightly on the sense of relief. Overhead, the waxing sickle of a bright, clear moon had risen, its edges haloed with a thin, weak corona. Stars gleamed from between dark sheaths of cloud and, just maybe, I supposed, things might be all right.

It was something to cling on to, anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

I hated splitting the group up, but as difficult as it was to face simply walking into Denerim—and everything that entailed—I knew it would have been worse going in together. Of course, that didn’t mean I had to be comfortable with the notion of Zevran, Morrigan and Sten wandering around loose at the neck of the Brecilian Forest, with only Wynne to keep them under control, and to prevent them from killing each other. Wynne and Maethor, I corrected myself. _He_ didn’t want to be left, either.

We had one last night, camped in the wooded edges of someone’s farm, with the Highway and the North Road knotted into each other at our backs, and the distant, jagged outline of Dragon’s Peak cutting into the sky. The mabari was stuck to me like wet flannel, trailing at my heel and whining piteously as I did the usual firewood round.

“It’s no good complaining,” I said, looking down into the huge, liquid brown eyes. “You’re not exactly inconspicuous.”

Maethor groaned, tilted his head to the side, and wagged his stumpy tail uncertainly. I sighed, glanced around us, and then tossed one of the sticks I’d gathered for kindling across the clearing. He went bounding after it with a delighted bark, huge paws scrabbling on the soft ground. For once, it wasn’t actually raining, which made for a pleasant change.

Things were practically convivial that evening, despite the amount there was to do. We’d been lucky enough to find a small stream—probably some kind of tributary of the Drakon—which provided a very welcome opportunity for a proper wash… and some laundry.

If Alistair, Leliana and I were going to escape notice in Denerim, wandering about in bloodstained armour wouldn’t be an option. We needed to blend in, she said, which apparently meant the opposite of disguise. I frowned, not quite understanding. Alistair looked crestfallen, and voiced disappointment at not being able to don a shadowy cowl and a false moustache.

“That’s exactly what I meant, silly!” Leliana giggled. “You don’t dress to _hide_ , you dress to fit in. _That_ is what a perfect disguise is.”

“Ah, _certo_ ,” Zevran chimed in. “The ability to walk a mile in the shadow of the man you intend to kill… without him ever knowing you are there.”

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence, as we considered the rather recent relevance of that statement. Alistair wrinkled his nose.

“What, until you drop a tree on him and then spring an elaborate trap involving tripwires, crossbows, and an apostate mage with a nasty line in fireballs?”

Zevran shrugged. Perched on a tree stump, left leg propped across his right knee, he was contemplatively stroking a whetstone along the blade of one narrow, cruel-looking dagger.

“Yes. I can’t think why it didn’t work.”

He smiled amiably at us, firelight glimmering on his tanned skin, and inclined his head to Leliana.

“Still, my original point was recognition of your brilliance, my dear. Beauty, shrewdness and talent… you are indeed devastating.”

She gave a small ‘hm’, a noise somewhere between triumph and disapproval, and picked up the bundle of clothes we’d sorted from our pooled resources. For her, the Chantry robes she’d worn when we met her in Lothering. For Alistair, a hasty patch job on his one decent shirt, plus breeches, boots, and one of the oiled leather cloaks from Redcliffe, which would cover a multitude of sins.

I’d dug out the brown dress Valora had given me the day I left home. It had been wadded up at the bottom of my pack ever since Ostagar—one of the only possessions of mine to survive Ishal—and Leliana’s face had screwed up in horror when I shook it out. Still, it wasn’t as if I had anything else, and I could hardly enter the city in my leathers.

I followed her down to the water and helped with the wash. For a while, it almost felt like something familiar, like the echo of an old routine. No pump, though. No knots of gossiping women… no Shianni, teasing me and swapping stories.

We dried everything out by the fire, ate an interesting meal of partially charred rabbit—thanks, once more, to Alistair’s culinary prowess—and tried not to let the mood settling over the camp be one of melancholy farewells.

I couldn’t help thinking of how different things were from when we’d left the Wilds, packed on our way by an old woman who was so much more than she seemed. _I_ was different. I felt… stronger, I supposed, in a peculiar way. I was still here, still alive, and that counted for a damn sight more than it ever had before.

Also, despite the things I’d told Alistair about my conscription, he didn’t seem to have pulled away from me. There was a certain sense of reserve between us, perhaps… which I suspected was my fault. I could have worded so much differently, though I had to admit that talking about it had been a burden lifted. And he didn’t look at me as if I was a monster. Neither did Zevran… although _he_ had a manner of looking at everybody that was altogether far more unsettling.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

We started early the following day. There was camp to pull up, and everything to repack, and I was queasy with nerves. Leliana, by contrast, couldn’t seem to keep the grin off her face.

“It’s rather fun, isn’t it?” she said, giving me a conspiratorial smile as we sorted our clothes for the journey.

“Um… yeah,” I managed, still sleepy and clad in my shirt and breeches, the morning chill nipping at my gritty eyes.

I’d allowed Maethor to sneak into my bedroll in the night. He was a fidgety sleeping companion, but a comfort when the dreams came. Just whispers and humming in the darkness, and then the straining of a great, dark body imprisoned in an earthen tomb, roaring and thirsting for its freedom. Alistair’d had a bad one; I’d heard him cry out, heard Wynne wake and call his name, dragging herself out of her own tent to check on him.

Funny, I supposed, that I hadn’t gone myself. I’d thought about it, unsure why I hesitated. It didn’t matter now, anyway.

I took the opportunity of another wash in the creek, delighting in the freshness of clean face and hands, and slipped on the much-abused broadcloth dress. The good scrubbing had got rid of almost all the stains, though there was something unwholesome on the hem that I suspected was darkspawn blood. The worst of the wrinkles were out, but the poor thing still looked more like a dishrag than an example of delicate elven tailoring. It didn’t fit terribly well although, with my shirt on beneath and a belt and scrip around my waist, I started to look and feel more the part.

I smoothed the dress down, and felt every fibre sing with memories beneath my hands. Valora, smiling weakly as she gave me the things she’d taken from her own trousseau—this dress, the money she’d hidden in the pack—and the smells, sights and sounds of home.

Had it really been so long? I’d lost count of the days. Weeks slipped by too easily, and I supposed we should be keeping a more careful track of the time. We needed to, if we were to anticipate the movement of the horde, or of Loghain’s men… and the very fact that I could think like that showed me just how long it had been since I left home.

I combed my hair out, parted it as neatly as I could, and looked down at my clumpy, muddy, extremely serviceable boots. They gave me away: a soldier’s footwear, not a servant’s. Still, I doubted most humans would give me a second glance, much less look too closely at my feet. As long as we were quick, quiet, and didn’t attract attention, we’d be fine.

“All ready?” Leliana asked brightly, as I arrived back at the clearing.

She looked as serene as ever, and beautiful, with her Chantry robes clean and hair neatly dressed, and a scattering of braids woven into the glossy, deep red locks. I felt dowdy next to her; even more so when I thought of how she looked in archer’s leathers, hair slicked back and an arrow nocked and sighted.

I nodded. “As ready as I’m going to be, I think.”

“I still say you are all insane,” Morrigan declared, arms crossed over her chest as she stood by the pile of packs and bags that, until recently, had been our camp. “If you are caught and killed by the man you seek to depose, do not think for a moment _I_ shall hesitate in abandoning this ridiculous quest.”

“Oh, I don’t think anyone was thinking that,” Alistair said, emerging from his own ablutions. “We all just assumed you’d chicken out.”

She glowered at the implication of cowardice, and I started to say that, technically speaking, no one was planning on deposing anyone, but I didn’t get very far.

“I feel naked,” Alistair announced, waving his hands loosely in the region of what was usually mail and weaponry. “Without my… stuff.”

Clad in a shirt, cloak, and breeches, scrip at his belt and boots buffed but not polished to a shine, he resembled pretty much what I’d thought he was the first time I’d met him: the younger son of some unimportant merchant or minor pretender to the gentry. He still carried himself like a soldier—it was obvious he wasn’t just any old commoner, and that thought amused me briefly—but maybe we could get away with it.

Morrigan snorted. “I suggest we all consider ourselves lucky ’tis merely a _feeling_.”

Zevran, apparently materialising out of the shadows in that disturbing way of his, tutted wistfully as he eyed the three of us.

“Tsk. For such a beautiful woman, Morrigan, you have a shameful lack of appreciation for the charms of others, no?”

He gave Alistair a look of openly lascivious admiration, and murmured something I took to be Antivan… and probably obscene. Alistair blinked, looked panicky, and started to turn faintly pink. Leliana giggled, hand to her mouth in a girlish gesture curiously at odds with her robes.

Sten, standing at the edge of the clearing with Maethor sitting at his feet, appeared to be waiting for us all to stop messing around. He loosed a short sigh.

“When you have all finished admiring each other, it would be helpful to begin the journey.”

That dragged another stifled splutter from Leliana, but we did get moving. At the edge of the road, we said our goodbyes and—though they wouldn’t be for long—I still hated doing it. Wynne squeezed my hand tightly and smiled at me, those clear blue eyes full of warmth and trust.

“Take care,” she said. “And good luck.”

I nodded. “You too.”

Privately, I suspected she’d need it. But, with rendezvous points agreed, money and maps divided up between us, Morrigan huffing impatiently and Maethor doing another round of piteous whining, it was time to move on.

We left the five of them at the roadside, and set off north, not looking back. The sun was up, its early warmth not yet really lifting the chill from the earth, but the light gilded everything, making it seem clear and bright.

As I fell into step beside Alistair, he looked me up and down, and then grinned, which left me expecting some wisecrack or other.

“You know,” he said instead, “you look really… _different_ like that.”

“Er.” I blinked. “Thanks?”

He smiled awkwardly and turned his attention back to the road. Overhead, birds were beginning to flit and call, and a light breeze ruffled the trees. Dragon’s Peak stood dark and solid on the horizon, and I felt the pull of the city at its foot. Just a little way on, wrapped in walls and stone; all that life, that chaos and glorious mess. Home… and yet still tainted with so much fear and apprehension. Part of me wanted to turn tail and run after the others—off to find the Dalish, the way people joked of doing back… home.

No word had ever throbbed so loudly in my thoughts.

Leliana was walking a little ahead of us, the sunlight glinting on the red and gold of her robes. I slipped a sidelong glance at Alistair, without quite meaning to.

Clean, almost tidy, and reasonably well-dressed, he looked very… well, very… handsome. Not that I was about to say so, of course. It was bad enough admitting it in the privacy of my own head.

In any case I had, I reminded myself sharply, been the one to tell him that elves considered shems dirty. That is, that we considered… _that_ …. And we did. It was. I’d been brought up thinking that.

Humans, in all their gross, blatant physicality, didn’t have the same standards as us. They were lazy, impatient, rude, violent, disrespectful, dissolute… and there were things you just did not do. Things you did not consider. Looking at a human man that way was unthinkable. And I wasn’t thinking it, I told myself. I didn’t… _wasn’t_. No.

Of course not.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

We travelled faster without all our gear, but the journey still took the best part of a day… and I wasn’t really prepared for how things would feel when we arrived.

The day I’d left Denerim, with Duncan, the gates had been a chaotic throng of activity. Outside them, we’d seen all manner of traders, travellers, transients and less-than-salubrious merchants… a whole second city beyond the walls, and beyond the jurisdiction of the guard. I expected to see it there still when we arrived, but things seemed much more subdued now; just a steady influx of people heading in, and a few heading out, but the whole scene so much quieter, almost devoid of colour and joy.

Denerim was grieving, and afraid. I could feel it.

I didn’t know how long it had been exactly since the news of Ostagar and Cailan’s death had broken, or how firmly ensconced Loghain was in the palace, but the atmosphere was seeping out of the city like a dark tide, rising greasily… and we were heading straight into its swell.

We joined the knots of people traipsing through the southern gate, and tried not to look too out of place. It could have been worse; a tinker and his cart were occupying the guards’ attention, and an argument appeared to be brewing over the legality of his wares. I fell back, behind Alistair, affecting the position of elven subservience that did not come as easily to me as it once had. Head down, shoulders hunched… the back of my neck prickled as we edged on our way, and I saw the small, tucked smile that Leliana shot me, from the corner of my eye.

I wished I could say it felt good to be back.

In so many ways, the city hadn’t changed. The market square was still busy, still thronged with people and stalls. Merchants’ banners and canopies flapped in the dingy air, their colours bright against all the stone and wood. The day I’d left it behind me, I’d looked back at Denerim—with all its crooked buildings and cracked foundations—and thought of a fat old woman, bursting out of ill-fitting corsets. It still stank of dung and humans and livestock… I could pick out stables, taverns, and even the distant bilges of the docks on the air.

“All right?”

I drew in a sharp breath, stupidly startled by the sound of Alistair’s voice, and nodded.

“Mm-hm. Um… we should, er….”

I blinked, aware that this wasn’t happening at all the way we’d talked about it. The making of sensible, rational plans—inasmuch as being here at all was sensible—had occupied us while we walked. Leliana had come up with the suggestion that she make straight for the chantry and its archives, inconspicuous in her lay sister’s robes, leaving Alistair and I to follow up the meagre leads Ser Perth had given us. It seemed reasonable to assume that Brother Genitivi would have left some traces behind him, and I should have been thinking about that, I knew—thinking about what we were here to do, to learn—and not just standing there, rooted to the spot, as if the whole guard was going to suddenly turn on me.

There were elven servants among the stalls, like always. Lithe merchants’ girls in shem dresses, with gathered bodices and pleated skirts, their hair hanging loosely down their backs, or messengers or errand boys, or…. I caught myself staring at each of them, looking for anyone I knew, any cousin or sister or friend of a familiar face. Stupid, really. It felt as if there were fewer of them, unless I was imagining it. I assumed I was; too long among humans, where another elven face was a rarity, and now I saw them all as alien, the same way I looked at Zevran.

“We should arrange where we’re going to meet up,” Leliana said, and I barely felt her hand grasp my arm, drawing me aside. “I think by the well in the chantry courtyard, at sundown. That should give us plenty of time, no?”

She’d ushered us into the lee of a gable-ended warehouse, all cool flint-knapped walls and rough edges. I leaned against it, felt stones dig into my back, and nodded slowly.

She smiled, evidently still enjoying the whole clandestine operation thing, and gave a small giggle. I stared glassily, and the confirmations and ‘good luck’ wishes all passed over my head, or near enough. We watched Leliana walk away, swaying serenely in her red-and-gold robe, and Alistair exhaled deeply.

“Are you sure she’s not crazy?”

I glanced up at him, still a bit unused to the lack of armour and weaponry, and the way the lax lacing of his shirt left his throat bare, and I shrugged.

“Well… maybe not more than most of us,” I volunteered.

He grinned. “Good point. All right… where are we heading first?”

I wet my lower lip, a small frown pulling at my brow. It was so damn hard to hold onto thoughts when every second echoed with the footfalls of memories.

Alistair had the addresses noted down; the area of Genitivi’s home address, the last places in the city he’d been seen… and that _other_ address, scrawled on the ragged slip of paper he thought I hadn’t seen him thumbing ever since we pulled up camp.

We should head to Goldanna’s first, I supposed. At least that way, Alistair wouldn’t be so preoccupied for the task ahead. Plus, he wouldn’t want me hanging around; I could slip away, cut across the south end of the market… just peer across the bridge and know that Zevran had been right, and Loghain hadn’t deemed the alienage worth burning.

Even if I couldn’t make my presence openly known, surely that wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

I cleared my throat. “Er, where’d you say your sister’s place was?”

Alistair’s eyes widened slightly, and I thought he was going to start back-pedalling, but he prevailed.

“B-Birdcage Walk. I… don’t know where that is, so—”

Alarms started to hum at the back of my mind as soon as he said it. Father might have kept Shianni and I on a tight leash where excursions outside the alienage district were concerned, but the lower end of town—with its open-air butcheries, poultry keepers, and generally messy, unpleasant businesses—was common enough territory. The place Alistair mentioned was at the edge of The Shambles, which itself abutted a portion of the alienage wall… enough for us to get the midday sun on the piles of rotten offal that the butchers sluiced downhill, anyway.

I wrinkled my nose and pointed to the westerly end of the market. “That way. It’s, um… it’s not the best neighbourhood,” I added, uncomfortably needled by thoughts of a pretty cottage with a blue-painted door.

It wasn’t my dream, I told myself, and even Alistair had _known_ it was a dream. He wouldn’t be expecting that, would he? Not deep down, not really. No one could be that naïve.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

I led the way, while maintaining the fiction of walking behind him. It seemed to make Alistair very uncomfortable, and he muttered a lot about how odd it all felt. Actually, he just muttered a lot about everything… I recognised that nervous babbling of his, ineffectively cloaking the rising panic. He couldn’t see me smiling, for which I was grateful. I felt for him, but it still struck me as funny, the way he could be so brave in the face of battle, yet turned to gibbering mush by something like this.

Of course, a battlefield is something dependable. You’ll either live or die, stand or fall. An enemy comes at you with just one thought: to kill, or maybe disable. Other people are the only ones who can leave us dead and scarred inside with nothing but words for weapons.

So, I went with him. I followed, and the market slipped by around us, with bright, clear colours and hazy afternoon sunlight. And, almost without realising it, I found that I did not mind trailing in Alistair’s wake, thinking of how his clean skin and his clean hair seemed to smell a little bit like fresh, green apples and sweet sawdust.

I pushed the thoughts away hurriedly, ashamed of them. Anyway, it wasn’t as if someone like _him_ would… obviously, he’d be far more likely to reciprocate Leliana’s interested glances. That said, however, _she_ hadn’t been watching him with so much of that hungry optimism lately… not since the Circle Tower. Not that I’d noticed, naturally. Not really. Not in the sense of consciously, actually….

 _Oh, Maker’s balls. Shut up, Meri._

I shook my head, and was almost grateful for the encroaching smell of old meat and boiled linen, which signalled our arrival in the business end of the market district, and made it harder to have silly, frivolous thoughts.

With the bright colours and the wide spaces behind us, this was where the streets turned narrow and winding, and the smaller artisans’ shops, galleried houses and two-bit laundries huddled. Further beyond, buildings butted up against the narrow, filthy alleys onto which open air butchers’ shops fronted, with carcasses pegged out and stinking, and bloody entrails in the gutters before them.

The sounds of geese and chickens from behind a tall, wooden gate to our left, leading to the narrow yard behind one of the houses, spoke of how the place had found its name: cage upon cage of city-bred birds, raised up on the cobbles and the filth, and sold to rich men’s tables to bring a few coppers for the women who kept them.

Alistair frowned, then glanced along the street.

“Is… is this it?”

I nodded. “Birdcage Walk. Do you know which one it is?”

His frown deepened as he surveyed the row of grubby frontages, and I hoped he wasn’t looking for a neat, blue door.

“Over there, I think. I’m almost sure of it.”

The house was one of a row of narrow, crooked buildings, its roof sharp-pitched and lumpy. A clay pot stood on the faded, peeling wooden windowsill, and held a straggly, pale clump of flowers that someone had obviously tried to tend.

“She could be inside,” Alistair murmured. “Couldn’t she? She could….”

He trailed off and bit his lip, looking lost and slightly pale. I scuffed my boot against the cobbles and rubbed a palm against my dress. Funny that I should feel so awkward, I thought. I’d worn clothes like this all my life, and now I missed my battle-scarred leathers.

“Right. I’ll, um… well, I can wait for you along here, and—”

“What?” Alistair stared at me, wide-eyed. “You’re not coming too?”

I should have expected it. I shrugged. “I thought you’d want some privacy, but—”

“Do I seem a little nervous?” His throat bobbed as he swallowed heavily, and he gave me an imploring look. “I-I am. Um… I really don’t know what to expect. I’d like you to be there with me, if you’re willing.”

“Or we could… leave, I suppose. Couldn’t we? Maybe we should do that. We really don’t have time to pay a visit, anyway. We should… yes. Probably just go….”

“Fine.” I sighed and shook my head wearily. At this rate, he wasn’t even going to walk up to the door without a blade pressed to his back. “Let’s see if she’s home.”

Alistair had actually started to pale, uncertainty contorting his face. “D’you think she’ll know who I am? Does she even know I exist? Maybe she doesn’t— hey, come back! You can’t just knock on the _door_ … oh, Maker….”

I’d taken matters into my own hands, strode up to the messuage, and rapped on the peeling wood. There was no lock. Alistair shifted from foot to foot behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder to see him chewing his lip.

“See? She’s not even—”

A voice called out from within, indistinct but definitely there, and I thought he’d swallow his tongue. I pushed the door gently, just enough to start forcing it back on creaking hinges, and smiled at the widening of those hazel eyes.

“Lead on,” I said quietly. “My prince.”

The jibe—that hark back to Redcliffe, when he’d first trusted me enough to tell me the truth—pulled Alistair from the edge of his panic, and he glared at me, eyes narrowed. I grinned.

“Very funny,” he muttered, squaring his shoulders before he headed inside.

I followed, aware of the smells of soap, starch, and wet cloth. She was a laundrywoman, then, this sister of his. As we stepped into the house, blue streaks marring our vision with that first moment of adjusting to the dimness, nostalgia wreathed me, and I remembered the women back home who used to take in laundry. Great, boiling coppers, wooden paddles, and twists of shems’ wet underthings hung up all over the place. Once, when we were children, Shianni dared me to steal a vest off someone’s line. I did it, and we giggled at the size of the thing and pantomimed about, pretending to be big, fat humans… and then, when we inevitably got caught, Father gave me the leathering of a lifetime.

I blinked, dragged back to the present by Alistair’s strangled cough of politeness.

“Er… hello?”

Wet clothes criss-crossed the room, hanging in ranks around a small fire, the smell of damp cloth and soap making the air humid and stale, while the bare floorboards were splashed with drips.

We waited, and a tall, thin woman came out from the rear of the house. Looked like there was a whole scullery back there, I thought, and at least another two rooms. Palatial, by alienage standards, though I knew I shouldn’t be comparing.

She… wasn’t the woman of Alistair’s dreams, to put it as delicately as I know how. Neither did she look anything like him—at least not to my eyes. Her pale brown hair held a shimmer of the same reddish-gold, perhaps, but trying to see any real resemblance was like looking for clouds in puddles.

She wore a plain green dress, cut low on the shoulder, with a full apron that must have started the day white and, as she came to greet us, she wiped her large, red-knuckled hands upon it. Everything about her was raw-edged, it seemed; all hard angles, tight planes, and slightly threadbare corners, worn down by years of hard graft and even harder pride. I recognised all of that in the first glance… I just wasn’t quite used to recognising it in humans.

Goldanna reached up, tucking a fall of hair behind her ear, one thin brow arched in enquiry. Her other hand came to rest on her hip, and she stood perfectly straight, fixing Alistair with a sharp grey gaze.

“Eh? You have linens to wash?” The other hand came to rest on her waist. “I charge three bits on the bundle. You won’t find better. And don’t trust what that Natalia woman tells you, either. She’s foreign and she’ll rob you blind.”

She hadn’t so much as glanced at me until then, but at that point she did, and she seemed faintly puzzled, as if wondering why I wasn’t carrying a groaning bag of my master’s laundry. The passingly snide thought that—given what I knew from our time on the road—Alistair’s socks could probably jump into a copper of their own accord, if properly herded, seemed unkind, especially when I was so aware of him tensing beside me.

“I’m… not here to have any wash done,” he said, sounding faintly bewildered and, frankly, terrified. “My name’s Alistair. I’m… well, this may sound sort of strange, but are you Goldanna?”

The breath hitched in my chest, acute discomfort making me wish I could be anywhere but here. I supposed I ought to be a good little elven wench and stare at the floor, but I’d already seen the woman’s face hardening.

“I am Goldanna, yes.” She frowned suspiciously. “Why?”

Alistair swallowed heavily and took a deep breath. “I… well, I suppose I’m your brother.”

There was a moment of deep, intense silence, which then cracked loudly under the weight of Goldanna’s broad Denerim vowels.

“My _what_?” The frown became a scowl, her eyes narrowing as she glared at him. “What kind of tomfoolery are you up to?”

Her skinny chest rose with indignation, and flesh-memories of an alienage childhood had me already tensing, waiting for the moment she’d seize a broom and chase us out of the house with it. My shoulders tightened in expectation of the first blow, and maybe that was why I opened my big, stupid mouth. Some feeling of camaraderie, some ache for the days when I was one of a pack of urchins with scraped knees and ill-fitting second-hand shoes flapping on the cobbles.

“He’s telling the truth,” I blurted. “Please… just listen to him.”

Goldanna wrinkled her lip and gave me the kind of look usually reserved for things found on the bottom of boots. She started to frame a reply, but Alistair got in first.

“Look, our mother… she worked as a servant in Redcliffe Castle, a long time ago. Er, before she died, I mean….”

Maker help him, he was useless. I winced a little, but there was no crack in the torrent of words to slide a blade, much less an interruption.

“I know that much,” Alistair added, apparently oblivious to the change seeping over Goldanna’s face. “Then, when she had me, she—”

Maybe it was the reference to Redcliffe. Maybe few people knew about it… or maybe she could just see something of their kin in him now, standing there in the dim-lit room, grubby sun-streaked daylight coming in through the shutters and picking at the gold in his hair and the terror in his eyes.

Whatever it was, the association wasn’t a happy one for Goldanna. Her eyes narrowed to slits, those red, thin hands bunching on her hips as her face tore open around a vicious sneer.

“You! You’re _him_ … I knew it! They told me you was dead!” One hand left the band of her apron, coming up to stab an accusatory finger in Alistair’s general direction, while her voice grew shrill and jagged. “They told me the babe was dead along with Mother, but I _knew_ they was lyin’!”

I sensed this wasn’t going to end well, and shifted my weight awkwardly, wishing I’d stayed outside. Alistair didn’t even have the sense to shut up, cut out and run. He just stammered a bit and looked confused.

“Wh…? T-they told you I was dead? Who? Who told you that?”

“Them’s at the castle!” she spat, scowling, though she wasn’t even looking at him anymore, rather off into some distant, bitter memory. “I _told_ them the babe was the king’s, and they said he was dead. Gave me a coin to shut my mouth and sent me on my way! I knew it!”

I didn’t dare look at Alistair. Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time a woman was tossed aside, dead or alive, after servicing a noble’s whim… and it made sense, I supposed, for Arl Eamon to have kept Maric’s little embarrassment where he could be easily watched over.

None of that was going to make it easier for him to hear, though. I winced again as I heard him speak, low-voiced and heavy-hearted. He knew he wasn’t going to get the acceptance he’d wanted here, yet he was still clinging to the hope enough to keep driving forward, offering up fistfuls of dreams to her, even as they slipped through his fingers like cold ashes.

“I’m sorry. I… didn’t know that. But the babe didn’t die. I’m him. I’m… your brother.”

Goldanna scoffed and crossed her arms over her chest, the thin fall of reddish hair brushing her shoulder as she shrugged.

“For all the good it does me! You killed Mother, you did, and I’ve had to scrape by all this time. That coin didn’t last long, and when I went back they ran me off!”

Standing beside him as I was, I heard the breath catch in his throat. Such a small sound, a reaction choked down with years of practice, but it twisted like a blade in my flesh.

“Well, that’s hardly Alistair’s fault,” I protested, though I’d meant to stay quiet.

Goldanna turned, glaring at me, her mouth a tight line, etched with bitter years of hard work and little reward. It was like looking down a tunnel at my past, as if I could see there every woman on every corner back home.

“And who in the Maker’s name are you?” she demanded. “Some elf to follow him about and carry his riches for him?”

It stung. I couldn’t deny that… or the fact that, for some stupid reason, it shocked me. It shouldn’t have. It was what I was dressed as, what I’d been for most of my life: just another elf. It was what I knew most people thought when they saw me, armour or no, and yet—for the first time, perhaps—it didn’t _feel_ like me.

I raised my head, met her hard, sharp gaze, and opened my mouth to snarl back just as much spite as she’d given me. I just didn’t expect Alistair to stand up for me.

“Hey! Don’t speak to her that way!”

I glanced at him, possibly almost as taken aback as Goldanna appeared to be. He bristled, shoulders squared defensively… defending _me_ , for the Maker’s sake, and to her, of all people.

I shut my trap, humbled as his frown slipped and softened into something a little like a look of confusion.

“She’s… she’s my friend,” he said, turning his head slightly towards me, though his gaze stayed focused on Goldanna. “A-and a Grey Warden, just like me.”

Uncertainty pitched through my gut, a direct and opposite twin to the confidence that saying those words so obviously gave him. Alistair looked hopeful, even wistfully proud… as if the statement was as powerful a shield as the curved ash board I’d seen him pummel darkspawn with.

I wasn’t so sure he should be quite that eager to announce our affiliation with an outlawed order. Especially here, or now. I fidgeted a bit, my gaze wandering past the curtains of wet laundry to the door.

Goldanna stared, and then looked as if she might burst out laughing, had she not been quite so full of curdled anger. The noise that broke from her was a sharp, ugly cough, and her mouth curled unpleasantly around it.

“Ohhh, a Grey Warden, is it? Really? And a prince, too.” She fixed Alistair with a glare as tough as old hide, and wiped her hands on her grubby apron, eyes pale slits of disgust. “Well, who am I to think poorly of someone so high and mighty compared to me?”

No, _definitely_ not a good idea. The scorn in her voice suggested she might not believe him, but I doubted she’d let it stand in the way of calling the guard, if she either remembered or knew of Loghain’s bounty.

“I don’t know you, boy,” Goldanna said, her words as low and vicious as snake strikes. “Your royal father forced himself on my mother and took her away from me, and what do I got to show for it? Nothing.”

If her words hit me like a punch to the kidneys, I could only imagine what they did to Alistair. I glanced at him, cut by the look of utter desolation on his face.

“I—”

Mouth slack and the colour draining from him, he tried to marshal a reply, but she wasn’t giving an inch.

“They tricked me good, didn’t they?” Goldanna sneered. “I should have told everyone! Like they’d have believed me…. Well, I got five mouths to feed, and unless you can help with _that_ , I’ve less than no use for you.”

Her mouth snapped shut, a thin line amid the hard planes of her face, and those eyes that were so little like his blazed out from shadowed, hollow sockets. I knew that anger, that resentment—that glaring, blinding rage at injustice and stagnation and all those other things—and yet it didn’t stop me from wanting to claw those cruel words right off her tongue.

“I… I’m sorry,” Alistair murmured. “I… don’t know what to say….”

Of course he didn’t. Him, with his head full of hopes and his heart stacked up with empty spaces. It wasn’t fair, what she was doing to him, and I opened my stupid mouth again, plunging into a fight that shouldn’t have been anything to do with me.

“Goldanna, please… Alistair came here hoping to find his family. Can’t you at least—”

“So? He found it,” she barked. “And what good is that to me? None, that’s what, unless he can see to it that his bleedin’ _family_ lives as it should!”

She tilted her chin up, her face hard as marble. From the back room, a baby started to cry, and I saw her gaze flick briefly away from us, her stance shifting as her body registered the need to tend to the infant.

“You think on that,” she sneered, jabbing a finger at the region of Alistair’s chest, “your _Majesty_.”

I hadn’t realised, until she swept from the room, off to see to the baby, that my hands had curled themselves into fists. I unclenched them, rubbed at the little red half-moons on my palm, and listened to the sound of footsteps on worn floorboards… and Alistair’s small sigh. All around us, wet clothes dripped onto the bare floor, probably warping the boards a little more every day.

It was awkward. I didn’t want to look at him, and so I frowned at my hands, and made a show of inspecting them. He cleared his throat softly, trying to attract my attention.

“Well… I-I could give her some money, couldn’t I?”

I groaned inwardly. At that moment, I think I’d have done anything to have been somewhere else. Not much chance of that, though. I started to raise my head.

“What d’you think?” Alistair said quietly, and I knew before I looked at him that I wasn’t going to disagree… I just wasn’t prepared for the full magnitude of the kicked-puppy expression, or the subdued tone of his voice. Hopeful desperation filled those hazel eyes, and he raised his brows. “For my nieces, or nephews, or…?”

He didn’t even know how many of each there were, and he already wanted to feed, clothe and educate them all. I sighed, and nodded.

“Of course. Go on. Just… oh, never mind.”

I don’t think he even heard the last part. I wished there was even the faintest possibility of my being annoyed with him, and wondered if the woman really did have five kids. He started fiddling with the coin purse at his belt, and I did a mental count of how much money we had, how much I’d left in Wynne’s keeping, how much we’d need for food and anything else that might crop up in the time it would take to track down this bloody cleric and get back to Redcliffe….

At the jingle of coins, Goldanna swept back in, baby on her hip, almost as if she’d been listening at the doorway.

The child looked less than a year old: small and pudgy, with a red, snotty nose, pink cheeks, and tufts of dark blond hair. Tiny stars of hands clutched at Goldanna’s dress and, as she swiped her thumb across the little one’s eye, wiping away the smears of sleep, her face softened immeasurably.

Our coin purse clinked in Alistair’s hand. He was staring, mouth hanging very slightly open. For a moment, I could almost have believed we were back in the Fade, in that dream I thought he’d never wake from, where a sister who loved him lived in a pretty cottage with a blue-painted door, and the smell of baking bread made the air feel like home.

It hurt me, too; I couldn’t deny it. Not just his pain, which I shared with a jealous sympathy, as if I had a right to it, but—and this I had not expected—the simple fact of another woman’s child. A reminder of something I would never have… a clarion to recall everything that had been stripped, taken from me. It was a dry, coarse agony, to look at that sharp-edged bitch and know I could never be her… never know that gift, or share it with someone I loved.

“F-Fifteen sovereigns,” Alistair managed, jerking me very suddenly out of my reverie. “I know it’s not that much, but… we don’t have a lot right now. Maybe when things are more settled, I can—”

Not _much_? It was everything we’d brought with us—more than two-thirds of the entire camp kitty! I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood.

Goldanna’s eyes widened briefly at the mention of the amount, though that fleeting surprise was soon replaced by a more familiar scowl. She reached out and snatched the purse he offered, weighed it briskly in one hand, and then scoffed disparagingly.

“Is that it? You march in here, sayin’ all them things, all clean and smart with your doxy on your heels—”

I really didn’t like her, I decided. Had she been elven, she’d have been the kind of woman Father would have called vulgar.

“—and this is all you got to offer? You must think I’m very stupid.”

She glared at him as she tucked the purse away into the folds of her apron. Quick to disparage the charity, I noticed, but not so quick to refuse it.

The little one’s hand waved out to pat its mother’s face, and Goldanna twisted her head away, reaching up to catch the tiny pink star and—barely a breath away from her bitter contempt—pop a little kiss on the child’s palm. It giggled, and I was reasonably sure I actually heard Alistair’s heart break.

“I don’t think that at all!” he protested, the pitch of his words rising to confused panic as the last shreds of whatever fantasy reunion he’d pictured slipped away from him. “I… I want to help, if I can. I—”

“Alistair,” I said softly, aware he wasn’t listening.

“You want to help?” Goldanna scoffed, and the minute she looked away from the child, her face was stiff as hide again. She curled her lip. “Well, you go to whatever high-and-mighty folks you run with, and you tell them you’ve got nephews and nieces that aren’t living as they’ve a right to! You do that!”

She couldn’t have done worse to slap him in the face.

“But… I….”

“Let’s go,” I murmured, touching his arm gently. “Alistair? I think it’s time to go.”

I tugged on his sleeve, harder this time. He blinked, and looked at me just the way he had in the Fade, when he realised that beautiful dream wasn’t real. He nodded, brow pinched into a tired, bleak frown.

“You’re right. I’m starting to wonder why I came.”

Goldanna snorted. “I don’t know why you came, either, or what you expected to find. But it isn’t here. Now get out of my house, the both of you!”

We did, stumbling over excuses and the broken ends of apologies and, before we knew it, deposited back outside in the hazy sunlight, with the smells of the butcheries and wet laundry on the air.

Even as the door slammed, Alistair was already walking. I couldn’t blame him. I’d have done the same, because the only thing to do when life hurts you is put distance between yourself and the wound. He was heading the wrong way, though… away from the market and down into the far end of The Shambles. I swore to myself and loped after him, boots clattering on the cobbles.

The buildings drew tighter here, streets so narrow that the roofs almost touched each other. The smell of blood and meat washing up from the gutters, and the semi-distant sound of men hauling carcasses behind the work sheds, didn’t sicken me the way it used to.

I’d almost caught up with Alistair as he stopped, suddenly, in the lee of a boarded-up chandler’s shop. I suspect he thought I didn’t see the deep, wobbly breath he took.

He turned and gave me one of those lop-sided grins, except it came out weak and twisted.

“Well, that was… not what I expected. To put it lightly.”

“I’m sorry.”

I wasn’t sure what else to say. Somewhere back behind us, the cathedral bells started to mark the ninth hour. Alistair winced and shook his head.

“Huh… me too. _That’s_ the family I’ve been wondering about all my life? That gold-digging harridan? I can’t believe it. Wish I hadn’t given her that money.”

“Don’t judge her too harshly,” I said, trying not to think about the fact we were now flat broke, except for the handful of coins I’d left in Wynne’s care, and whatever coppers he might have had left in his pockets. “Poverty can… do strange things to people.”

Alistair gave me a very peculiar look. I supposed I hadn’t sounded terribly convinced by my own words. Goldanna’s house, while not exactly in the best part of town, was a vast improvement on the alienage tenements, and she’d been so dismissive of fifteen sovereigns!

I thought of the day Dilwyn and Gethon had given me a hundredth of that amount, and I’d clutched the purse to my chest, more coin than I’d ever seen in a lifetime.

Still, it occurred to me that we were going to have to explain what he’d done at some point. I didn’t even want to picture the look on Morrigan’s face.

“I guess so,” he said doubtfully. “At least the money should help, right?”

“Right,” I agreed, hoping that thinking about it like that gave him some means of escape from the things echoing inside his head.

Had the bitch tried, she probably couldn’t have managed a more complete rejection.

Shadows played up against the damp wooden walls, and a pervasive smell of piss lingered at the footings of the buildings. We set to walking, because it was better than standing around dwelling on things, though Alistair apparently wasn’t done talking.

“I don’t know… I guess I was expecting her to accept me without question. That’s what family is supposed to do, isn’t it?” He heaved a sigh. “I… I just feel like a complete idiot.”

It was hard to talk him out of the downward spiral when I agreed with everything he was saying, but I had to try. A rat scurried past, clinging to the edge of the gutter. It wasn’t as big as the ones we got… back home. Just the thought of the words choked me. We were less than six streets from the far side of the alienage. Third ward, I reckoned, where my cousin Andar had lived until he left to get married, two summers ago.

“No.” I cleared my throat. “You’re not an idiot. If anyone is, it’s _her_ —missing out on the chance to know her own blood. Anyway, family’s what you make of it. You, uh… you have others who… care for you.”

Alistair wasn’t even looking at me.

“Such as?” He swiped a boot savagely at the weeds poking up through the cracked cobblestones. “The only person who ever cared about me was Duncan. And he’s gone.”

I found my mouth suddenly dry, my chest tight and my forehead buzzing with the fluttering hum of a pulse. It was silly. Ridiculous, even. Here I stood, in a stone’s throw of home, with so much weight on my shoulders it was a wonder I could still stand… and there was only one thought in my head. It was something too wild, too shapeless to have a form, but it was there, nonetheless, and I didn’t know what to do about it.

“I-I do,” I mumbled gracelessly. “I, um….”

Alistair stopped, and I knew he was looking at me, but I stared doggedly at the cobbles, afraid of raising my head. Funny, when I’d just started getting used to looking humans in the eyes. Maybe it was being back in Denerim that did it. Maybe it was just him.

“Oh?”

 _Bastard_. I didn’t want him to make me say it. I wasn’t sure enough of anything myself. Unbidden, the echoes of all he’d done for me ran through my head. His blade, between me and the darkspawn, more times than I could count. Him kneeling in the mud, bandaging my feet when they were bloody and raw with blisters. The way he’d stood up for me, so many times—in Redcliffe, in Lothering, and even here, with the sister he’d so ached to find—always upbraiding the people who spoke to me like an elf instead of a woman… a Warden, I corrected.

Maybe I really didn’t know myself anymore. I took a deep breath, and let the sour air fill my lungs.

“I said, _I_ care about you,” I mumbled, and the words felt very small.

I looked up, expecting to see that lop-sided grin Alistair so often hid behind but, for once, there was no dissembling. Just a man who’d had his most deeply cherished, longest-held dreams ripped down and pissed on.

He swallowed, and bowed his head.

“I… um, thank you. I’m glad you came with me.”

A small, weak smile touched the edge of his lips, and his hand brushed against my arm; just a gentle pressure, a companionable squeeze of my elbow, and yet it seemed to say a lot.

His eyes really were flecked with gold, I decided. A shifting palette of colours, as open and easy to read as the rest of him… sort of.

My nervous return of his smile flittered into nothingness and I moved away, pointing us towards the far neck of The Shambles, and the nest of backstreets that would bring us out by the lower gate.

Much better to be walking, I thought, than standing around and dwelling on things.


	7. Chapter 7

Nerves rippled unpleasantly through me as we left The Shambles behind us and headed out through the lower end of the market district. The cries of poultry and caged geese, and the smell of open-air butchery, gave way to the stench and noise of down-wind tanneries and leather workers. Between the crooked rows of buildings, I thought I caught sight of the alienage wall.

My steps quickened, though I had no idea why. I couldn’t just… walk in. I couldn’t— well, I didn’t know _what_ I was going to do.

“You’re, um, smiling,” Alistair said, as we sidestepped a pile of filth and crossed under the lee of a small wooden gantry that ran between the houses.

“Stops you gagging,” I replied conversationally, swiping a kick at a particularly bolshy rat that had bared its teeth at me. “Anyway, that’s practically home. I—”

I broke off abruptly, and shot him a faltering glance, not sure why I should suddenly feel embarrassed. Alistair shrugged, and smiled thinly. He didn’t look much as if it was helping with the smell.

“I’ll head back up to the market if you like. I expect you’ve people to see.”

The look in his eyes told me he’d assumed I’d go home… assumed that there were people waiting for me, people who wanted to see me, hold me tight and tell me everything was fine.

Why he’d think that, after what I’d told him about the way I left, I didn’t know, but I had certainly never found myself being envied by a human before.

He looked away, boots scuffing on the cobbles and those golden brows pulled into a despondent frown.

“Come too,” I said, stupidly… blindly. As if, even at the best of times, walking into the alienage with a shem next to me would have been anything less than ridiculous.

“Oh, I-I couldn’t—”

“We’ll walk round to the south gate.” I pointed past the crowded tenements and the patchy wattle of the wall visible between them. “I’ll… I just need to see what’s going on. That’s all. I mean, it’s not going to be tea and cake, not after….”

I shrugged wordlessly, and Alistair nodded. I flattered myself that he understood, because having someone who did, at that point, was important. It meant I wasn’t entirely alone.

“I just want to know they’re all right,” I murmured, then hunched my shoulders and strode on, my incongruously serviceable boots ticking on the cobbles.

For once, it was Alistair who had to hurry to keep up.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

There were few crowds at the far end of the market district, where the colour and the scent of spices and trade goods faded, just like the afternoon sun. Still, I glanced at the faces of the people we did see. Maybe I thought the girl who’d walked from this place all those weeks ago might have left an echo among them.

Fat chance. Even my borrowed frock didn’t fit the same way it had.

Something was wrong, though. That much was evident right away. The gates were shut. That wasn’t right. The market wasn’t dead yet… where were all the women doing gate trade? It was an established, respectable part of life. There should have been girls like Shianni and me, over-charging on bunches of bruised tulips, or women selling second-hand gloves and scarves, or whatever odds and ends they’d sewn or knitted.

There was… nothing. Just a guardsman in city armour, leaning up against the wall and looking bored. I stopped, the sight of him an unpleasant reminder that brought me up short, but I needed to know.

Zevran’s words about the state of things in the city after Vaughan’s murder—and the number of people who wanted my head on a pike—whispered back to me. I tried to push them away, clenching and unclenching my hands as I stood there, balling up the courage to cross those last few feet of ground.

The alienage walls loomed up high and crooked. They’d never seemed so tall before, and I wondered if I’d ever really _seen_ them.

Behind me, Alistair started to speak, but I didn’t wait to hear what he wanted to say. I shook my head and, fists clenched, marched over to the gate, my shoulders back and all pretence at the role of humble servant forgotten. I heard him cuss, footsteps crunching as followed me.

As we drew closer, the city guard lowered his poleaxe, and the pitted metal blade clinked against the gate.

“Can’t let you go any further,” he said, in a weary, disinterested tone. “By order of the new arl of Denerim, no one is to enter the alienage.”

“But I’m _from_ the alienage!” I protested, my hand already closing on the bars.

I couldn’t see in, couldn’t hear anything… that must mean the inner gate was shut too. That wasn’t normal. The guard tapped his weapon on the inch of metal above my grasp. It made a dull _ting_ , but didn’t dissuade me.

“You might not want to say that too loudly,” he observed, glancing over my head at Alistair.

 _You might not want to_ let _her say that too loudly._

That was what he meant. The unspoken rephrasing hung in the air, and it pissed me off. I glared at the human.

“You’re just trapping all those people in there, then?”

He rolled his eyes. “Maker, don’t be so melodramatic. It’s a temporary lockdown, not a performance of _Dane and the Werewolf_.”

Oh, I could have shown him melodrama. Anger blistered my tongue, and I wanted to curse and yell, because that way I might be able to avoid the sense of dreadful inevitability that tugged at my chest.

How long exactly had it been since I’d left? A month? No, more than that. Two months? Maybe less, maybe longer. The days had started to slide into each other a while ago, and it had been easy to forget how quickly time passed in the city.

“Why, then?” I demanded, my voice rough, as if the question itself feared the answer. “What’s happened?”

The guard looked me up and down, apparently mildly surprised at my ignorance. He was a pallid, doughy sort of man, who looked like he made a habit of acquiring the patrols that mostly concerned standing somewhere quiet, out of the rain. He shrugged, perhaps indicating that my stupidity was no more than one could expect from a knife-ear.

“Well, they were rioting, weren’t they? Killed the arl’s son.”

I stepped back from the gate, my fingers falling from the bars and the cobbles slipping beneath my feet. _No._ My first thoughts were too brief, too tangled to be thoughts at all; just bright, bloody snatches of colour and fear that gave way to a sudden, bitter sense of betrayal.

 _He promised…._

Duncan never had, of course. Safe enough, he’d said. _For now_.

Had I ever believed that? Perhaps I’d clung to it, made pictures out of hopes and worn them pinned to my heart, like it might actually make them real.

I shook my head. “N-no. That….”

“Nah, they did,” the oblivious guard said, drawing a small paper of baccy from his belt. “’Course, Arl Urien didn’t make it back from Ostagar. With all the Kendalls dead, the regent appointed Rendon Howe of Amaranthine the new arl of Denerim. First thing he did was lead a purge of the alienage.”

The last slivers of sunlight slipped behind a cloud, and the air turned cold. Shadows fell over the market, and the trade flags and canopies flapped like wet flannel. A costermonger’s barrow squeaked as it passed and, somewhere, a caged cockerel crowed.

 _Purged._

They’d all be dead, then, wouldn’t they? My fault. All of it. All my fault….

The guard unfolded his baccy paper and teased out a wad, which he slipped between his blunt, brown teeth. “’Bout bleedin’ time, if you ask me.”

I was very vaguely aware of Alistair’s hand clamping down on my shoulder, not so much a gesture of comfort as one of firm indication that we should go. Now. I wanted to shake it off, but the air was thick and echoey, as if I had my head under water, and any movement seemed unduly complex.

The shem sniffed philosophically. “Anyway, it’s a mess in there. When things are put back in order, the gates will be reopened. No more than a day or two, I’d wager. A week at most. Now, on your way.”

He jerked his head back to the main drag of the market. Still full of life, still thronged with people, and the gold-hued glint of trade. The wind ruffled the trader’s stands, the clouds rolled by, and those weak shafts of sun were back, picking at the cobbles.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t walk away again. Not like this. I could see them all: Shianni, Soris, Valora… Father. All our friends and neighbours, the sprawling, spider-silk connections of community and extended family, cut in an instant. Had they burned the houses, or had people just vanished into the night? There were so many things that could happen, so many little accidents ready to befall the unwary…. The jingle of harness and the thud of marching boots beat over and over in my head.

“But—” I started to speak, somewhere between a plea and a protest, though I had no idea what I was going to say.

The guard sighed irritably and looked at Alistair.

“You want to put her on a leash, mate. Go on, get going.”

I felt rather than heard Alistair’s indignance; it was there in the way his fingers bunched on the back of my frock, but he managed to stay diplomatic.

“Right. Um… yes. C’mon, Meri. We should… we should go, I think.”

I was still staring at the gate, or staring _through_ it, back into a different world where I hadn’t been such a fool, hadn’t done so many stupid things that had caused so much pain and endangered the lives of people I loved, people who never deserved—

“Merien. Come _on_.”

Alistair’s grip on me tightened—a proper scruff-of-the-neck grab now—and his voice held an urgent, serious tone that brooked no argument.

“Huh.” The guard sniggered dryly, and spat a glob of brown, sticky foulness on the cobbles by my feet. “Go on, girl. You want to earn the switch, eh?”

For a second, I thought he’d spot my soldier’s boots as he spat at them, but he just lifted his head and shot Alistair a sardonic sneer. “I tell you, mate, they’re more trouble than they’re bleedin’ worth, right?”

Alistair mumbled something in response that I barely heard through the rushing in my ears. My legs had turned leaden and useless, and I was only partially aware of my fingers clenching into fists, itchy with the urge to close on weapons I didn’t have with me… and missed so very, very badly.

Alistair hissed something at me about not making a scene, and I suppose my face gave away exactly what I wanted to do. He dragged me away, at one point almost me lifting me off the cobbles, and we’d rounded the corner into a nearby alley, away from the wide expanse of the square, before I managed to twist out of his grip.

“Meri, what— what are you _doing_?”

I didn’t answer, too busy diving past the mouldy warehouses and piss-stained corners, back to the great dark shape of the wall. It ran behind everything, and I slipped between the buildings, following its tangled, ragged jumble. I knew it so well, better than I’d ever thought I did; every inch of texture, every one of the overlapping patches of cracked, faded wood, and every plank and board holding them together.

My fingers skimmed the rough timbers, lichen and splinters snagging my skin. There were weak spots. Always weak spots. It was just a matter of finding them. There were plenty of little rat-holes between here and the river. There had to be a way….

At last, I found what I was looking for—the cluster of elfroot plants, the patchy growth of lichen on the age-silvered wood—the place we’d snuck back into the alienage, the day that started everything. But something was wrong. I dropped to my knees, scrabbling at the base of the plants, seeking out the loose planks, but my fingers found no purchase, nothing that would yield.

I cussed and smacked a fist against the wood. Nailed up tight… probably along with every other potential squeeze-through or foothold.

 _Bastards!_

I lumbered to my feet, pressing my way along the wall where it curved off into the narrow, unsavoury spaces behind the alleyways and warehouses. Of course… the wall was still _there_ , but it was shored up by other walls, other bits of buildings. The back ends of gables and roofs, and the forgotten, crumbling bits of disused warehousing and shady dens.

There would be some way there, some chance of… what? I wasn’t sure. Climbing the wall, or finding some overlooked, forgotten spot that we could—

Footsteps thudded behind me, signalling Alistair catching up.

“Maker’s breath, woman! What are you trying to— oh, no. No, you can’t….”

I’d found a small ledge, of sorts, where the planks and their lashings didn’t quite fit. I got one foot into the crevice, my hands scrabbling at the timbers, and tried to pull myself up.

“You can’t—”

I ignored him, blinded by my own anger and frustration. My foot slipped, and I slid back down, wrenching my ankle.

“Damn!”

Alistair was there, trying to catch me, pull me away from the wall, but I kicked out, pushing him back.

“Get off! Look, I can get up, I can—”

“People are going to see,” he warned. “If we get caught, we lose what little chance we _have_ got of doing anything to help anyone. You know that. You can’t just… just start climbing walls a-and stabbing guards, so… get down. Now.”

It should have occurred to me that Alistair had barely even tried to tell me what to do since the Tower of Ishal. If it _had_ , I might have wondered why his words sounded so much less like an order instead of an awkward, desperate plea.

Unfortunately, I was too busy being pig-headed, locked into a blind swathe of fury about bloody shems and how dare they tell me what to do, and I just gritted my teeth and swore at him. I think my heel caught the side of his head as I resumed the climb.

My feet were already slipping, yet I clung on, scrabbling for purchase with fingers, knees and elbows, ignoring the scratches and creaking timbers. I was about six feet up, the top of the wall a good three feet above me, and I could feel myself beginning to fall. I didn’t care. I slammed my palm against the wood, yelling the names of those I had to believe were still there. They _had_ to be.

There was no sound from within. Visions of houses standing empty, with unwashed steps and shuttered windows, peopled my head. I couldn’t breathe, and I skidded further down the wall in a wave of outrage and desolate despair. Tears came. I hated them—hated myself for the weakness and the lack of control—but I couldn’t stop.

I half-fell, half-slid the rest of the way down, and Alistair caught my waist, his grip shifting hurriedly to my arms as I landed on the cobbles, knees jolted and ankles bowing with the impact. I fought him, but he held on, clamping me at arm’s length while I struggled, until I either gave up or realised how utterly ridiculous I looked—I don’t remember which happened first—and folded against him, sobbing.

Alistair held me tentatively by the shoulders, waiting until the tears gave way to a hot, horrible embarrassment, and I pulled away, scrubbing at my face with my sleeve and gulping great, snotty breaths of air.

“S-sorry,” I mumbled, the start of a garbled chain of apologies he brushed away with a shake of his head.

“Come on,” he said. “We’re going for a drink.”

I didn’t argue. It was nice, for once, to see him take the lead.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

The tavern was called The Blue Boar. I’d never been inside—Father, I thought, with a tear-sodden gulp, would have been horrified at the merest notion—but I knew the name. It was one of the places the boys used to go: one of the city’s many grubby little establishments, where ale was cheap and faces anonymous.

Alistair plonked me down at a table not far from the door, told me not to move, and disappeared. I stared at nothing until he came back, bearing two mugs of foaming, brown ale.

“Drink up,” he ordered, lifting his pint.

I curled my fingers obediently around the cheap clay mug, and took a swig. The stuff was foul—sour and harsh—but at least it felt real. I swallowed heavily, regretting the way I’d behaved.

“I’m sorry,” I said again, the taste of the ale furring my tongue. “I shouldn’t have—”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

I blinked. I knew exactly what he meant, and it brought the hot sting of tears back to my eyes.

“It wasn’t,” Alistair repeated evenly, looking at me over his mug. “None of it was your fault.”

“Everyone I know,” I whispered. “They’re… they’re all…. No. I have to get in. Find someone, some way to—”

“It’s dangerous enough just being here,” he said reproachfully, lowering his voice. “You _know_ that.”

“They’re my family,” I shot back, and it was a low, underhanded thing to do.

Alistair winced. “How about if we ask around? Just… find out what’s going on before you do anything… rash.”

I gave him an old-fashioned look, and he wrinkled his nose.

“You know what I mean. We’re here to ask questions anyway.”

He was right about that. I grimaced, recalling the fact we were meant to be doing something useful… something relevant to why we were here, instead of just flinging ourselves at our respective personal problems.

The bitter hollowness of that thought surprised me, and I was appalled at myself for a moment. The alienage had been everything I’d ever known, until the day I followed Duncan out through the cauldron of boiling resentment in the market, half-expecting to be knifed before we even reached the West Road. However far away it felt, that place had been my life. Those people…. It didn’t feel real to think they were all dead. But they must be, mustn’t they?

And I wasn’t a part of that world anymore. I hadn’t been, for so long now. Did that matter? Did it change how I felt? I barely knew, barely had any awareness of my own thoughts as they swirled through me, hardly touching my flesh.

I supposed, for the first time, I really understood how Alistair had felt after Ostagar.

It wasn’t a good feeling.

The world seemed to hold nothing but desolate grey plains, dry and featureless, and teeming with unchanging disappointment and regret. I thought of the Blight, and the darkspawn… and I didn’t even care. They didn’t seem real. _I_ didn’t seem real, and there didn’t seem to be any point in anything.

Alistair’s foot smacked into my ankle, the sudden sharp pain of a reinforced toecap shocking me from my maudlin thoughts.

“Think Leliana’s having better luck?” he asked, swigging his ale. “We haven’t heard alarm calls going up from the cathedral. Not yet, anyway.”

I gave a noncommittal grunt, aware that he knew how I felt, and was trying to do for me what I’d done for him during those first few days in the Wilds, when he’d been so close to losing himself in grief.

Later, I would appreciate the gesture, and the kindness, and the understanding. At the time, I simply felt irritated, and wished he’d shut up.

He was still talking, though the words washed over me a bit. Something about Genitivi, and what Ser Perth had said about the brother being an inveterate wanderer, and then he was pushing a short stack of coppers across the grubby table, along with one slightly bent silver coin.

I blinked, and realised that was all the money we had left. Little more than spare change.

“Hmm?”

Alistair stifled a small sigh, and repeated what he’d probably just said.

“Kitchens. They’re where the gossip is. Where people know things. I don’t expect taverns are very different to monasteries that way… and they’re much more likely to talk to _you_. Just ask.”

“Oh.”

Grudgingly, I got the gist of what he wanted me to do, and nodded. I knocked back about a third of the greasy beer, palmed the money, and set off in search of the door to the Boar’s kitchens.

I found it near the bar, where a knot of human dockers were evidently just off shift, and settling themselves in to drink their pay. A big, meaty hand clapped me on the backside as I passed, and I flinched, which fed their unpleasant laughter.

“Come on, darlin’,” one crowed, “give us a smile!”

Thick fingers closed around my wrist, pulling me into the group of men. As I turned, mouth open either to swear or protest—or possibly both—I suppose I wasn’t as enticing a prospect as I’d been from the back. One of the dockers laughed, and shoved the one who’d pinched me between the shoulder blades.

“G’on, Yorin! She’ll be grateful!”

I was on the verge of bringing my boot down on his instep when the barkeep intervened.

“Now, then, boys,” he said, with a calm, good-natured smile. “This one’s not on the menu. Come in with some posh nob, din’t you, girl?”

In the private world behind my eyes, I pulled the well-used dagger from the belt of my leathers, spiked the grabby bastard’s hand to the bar, and stood back to watch Morrigan spear the barkeep through the middle with a violent lance of pure ice.

Unfortunately, I had neither weapons, nor armour, nor a sorceress at my back. I dropped my gaze to the sticky floorboards, head bent. “Yes, ser.”

The shem leered. “And I ’spect he wants a room, don’t he? And a tray of something tasty from the kitchens?”

A chorus of laughter, ‘ooohs’ and ‘get in there, sons’ went up from the dockers, who were clearly already well-oiled enough to enjoy the show. The barkeep—a youngish man with dark hair and a thin, rather weedy moustache—seemed to thrive on the attention.

“Well,” he said, less to me than his merry band of onlookers, “we don’t do no hourly rents. It’s six bits a share, or a silver for yer own room, and I daresay Cook’ll do you a twopenny dinner if you ask nice.”

 I nodded dumbly.

“Well?” The barkeep snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Pay up, then, you stupid tart.”

I gritted my teeth and handed over the slightly bent silver. The dockers tittered and roared as the barkeep gave me a small brass key, and I was just grateful that Alistair was at the far end of the tavern, blurred out by the smoky miasma and the noise, not hearing and not seeing this.

I got away on the pretext of seeing Cook about a tray, and slipped off before the heat in my cheeks flamed any hotter. At least it was anger, I told myself, and not shame. Not completely, anyway.

 _Nothing more than the Grey Warden’s lackey… or possibly his whore._

Somehow, it was more bearable when people at least _knew_ Alistair was a Warden, and not some merchant’s younger scion with a penchant for elven wenches.

I stumbled into the kitchens, and almost collided with a scullery maid, which brought me to the immediate attention of Cook. She was a thin woman with blonde hair fading to grey, and deep lines scored around her eyes, nose and mouth.

“Whatchoo want?” she demanded.

The great furnace of a fire belched at one end of the long, low room, two huge black pots boiling over it, and three birds on a spit in front of them. The table was laden with things being chopped, kneaded, pounded and peeled, and scullions—both elven and human, like the tiny, wide-eyed girl I’d nearly cannoned into—darted to and fro, each apparently doing a dozen jobs at once.

“Er….”

It was clever of Alistair, I would realise later, to send me on that particular errand. I had to think on my feet, force myself to engage with the world and the intense, brutal hierarchy of the kitchen, and it left no room for the cold, grey places of grief.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

When I rejoined him, the tavern was growing noisier. A whole cacophony of voices—laughter, arguments, insults; the full range of life—thrummed against the walls, filling the close, musky space, and the air was rank with the smell of sweat, grease, and ale. Alistair sat hunched up at the table, staring morosely into the remnants of his pint, his difference to the other patrons marked by both his silence and his comparative sobriety. We shouldn’t linger here, I decided.

He looked up as I drew level with the table, and I wondered what he’d been thinking about. Goldanna, probably: the ragged ghosts of dreams and possibilities seemed to chase his eyes until he blinked, and pushed them all away.

“Hm?”

“There’s good news and bad news,” I said, sliding onto the bench beside him so I didn’t have to raise my voice above the crowd. “The good news is that Genitivi used to drink here sometimes. They know him, and his apprentice, Weylon.”

Alistair nodded and gave me an apprehensive wince. “What’s the bad news?”

“No address, except somewhere off the market district, and Cook called him a crazy old coot. Said she wouldn’t trust him to map his way to the boghouse and back.”

The wince became a frown, and I bit my lip in tacit agreement. With Arl Eamon being kept alive by magic, and any hope we had of being taken seriously by the Bannorn resting, I suspected, on either Teagan or Lady Isolde assuming control of his arling, we hardly needed to throw in our lot with some filibustering snake-oil chaser. And yet, we couldn’t return to Redcliffe empty-handed.

“We should go and meet Leliana,” Alistair said grimly, as he began to get to his feet. “Did you find out anything else?”

“A little. No, not that way. We’ll go out the back.” I slipped off the bench and, as he stood, caught his sleeve and nodded to the grubby hallway that led off to the right of the bar. “They all think we’re here for… you know.”

A blush started to crest my neck, the stuffy warmth of the tavern competing with the look of incomprehension on Alistair’s face to draw the most discomfort from me.

“I had to pay for a room,” I muttered, mugging frantically. “ _You_ know… right?”

“Oh. Oh! Er… um. Right.”

I dropped my hand from his arm as his expression transitioned magnificently from blankness to utter terror, and then a combination of embarrassment, shame, and disbelief.

I turned, and led the way, glad that this was one time I wasn’t expected to walk behind him. There was a little laughter, some jeering… I didn’t look to see if Alistair was still in tow until we cleared the bar and got into the shabby hallway, lined with rough wooden doors. Muffled noises seemed to be coming from one of the other rooms, but I didn’t stop to identify them.

Alistair cleared his throat and avoided eye contact. A potboy crossed the mouth of the corridor, keg on his shoulders and disinterested expression on his face. I nodded to where he’d come from.

“That way, I suppose. Out and round the alleys, back up to the market square?”

“Sounds good,” Alistair agreed, somewhat fervently.

I grinned, and we made our escape, mercifully without attracting anyone’s attention. I still had the little brass key in the pocket of my dress. It might, I supposed, prove useful if we needed somewhere to rest come nightfall… though I doubted it, no matter how widely the weedy little barkeep might grin if he saw Alistair accompanied by an elven wench _and_ a stunning Orlesian sister.

As we picked our way through the overflowing gutters and piss-stained alleys, I decided that sounded like the beginning of one of the kind of jokes Soris used to get into trouble for repeating in front of Father. The shard of memory was bittersweet, and pierced deeper than it might have done no more than a day ago.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

We met Leliana at the appointed spot in the chantry courtyard, just as the sun was going down. Merchants were packing up, furling their colours and nagging their servants, and dull threads of gold touched the edges of the pink-hued shadows. Denerim looked softer at dusk, I thought, and I stared out across the square, aching for the glimmers of candles in windows and the tread of men’s boots on the cobbles, because this was when they came home, tired and smelling of sweat and grime, yet still talking, still laughing. The sound of them filled up the streets, and I’d go to meet Father at our door, and there would be the scent of the dumplings Mother was cooking, and the wideness of his smile when he swung me up into his arms and hugged me, before we both had to go and wash up for supper.

“…really much of a record-keeper,” Leliana said, “but at least I have his last known address. It’s not far.”

She was looking expectantly at me, which seemed odd. Already, I’d all but forgotten how it felt to have people treating me like I was in charge. I blinked, and glanced at Alistair. He covered for me, for which I was grateful, but the glare he gave me was a little sharp.

“We should go now, I think,” he said. “There’s an apprentice, or assistant or something… if he’s there, he might have some information. The Chantry don’t have any more recent records than the Birth Rock transcriptions?”

“No.” Leliana shook her head, and twitched the sleeve of her robe back just enough to show the roll of parchment concealed inside it. “But I… borrowed a few things that might be useful.”

Alistair’s eyes widened briefly, as if he was contemplating shock or protest, but he just gave a weary sigh. He glanced at the patchy few knots of people between us and the edge of the square; evening service was still a little way off, though a few faithful had gathered by the Chanter’s Board, and there were two templars flanking the massive chantry doors.

“Right,” he muttered, evidently managing to quell whatever mantras of morality the monastery had beaten into him at an early age. “No, that’s… fine. We’ll just—”

“We should get going,” I said, grounding myself back in the present, forcing myself to take at least some semblance of control. “Alistair’s right. Thank you, Leliana.”

There was a hollowness to my voice that they must have heard, yet neither of them challenged me, nor gave any hint of being anything but pleased to follow my lead as I headed out towards the street Leliana named.

She walked at my shoulder, while Alistair dropped a few paces behind, apparently glad to relinquish the façade of being in charge. We didn’t seem to attract much attention, not in this half-light, twilit world, between the thronged excitement of the day and the nefarious hush of the night. The first watch patrols weren’t out yet, and most of the other people still about were more concerned with getting home.

All the same, I wondered whether it was sensible.


	8. Chapter 8

Brother Genitivi’s house was reasonably easy to spot, set back in one of the dim, old-fashioned little mews that lay off the western end of the market, and marked out by a bushy collection of plants that rambled, unkempt, around its frontage. The area was quiet, relatively genteel—at least compared to most of the district—and it seemed pleasant enough. Just the sort of place a man of letters might choose to make his home, I supposed, and I thought with a certain unease of the good brother’s dog-eared book, and its gaudy hyperbole and bright, impossible tales.

I hung back as Alistair knocked on the door. It was hard to shake the notion we were being watched, though I couldn’t make out a single soul among the dimming shapes of the houses. The cathedral bells tolled the hour, and I wondered whether we might make it out of town before the gates were shut for the night. I wanted to leave, I realised… more than I’d ever thought possible.

I blinked as the little house’s door creaked open, the thin, vulpine face of a young man appearing in the shadowed couple of inches’ gap.

“Yes? What are you doing here? What d’you want?”

Well, this was a promising start. I glanced at Leliana, and found her face a careful study in blankness, all porcelain and sapphire. Her gaze slipped quickly to me, and I could see from the tiny frown that flittered almost imperceptibly across her brow that she was uneasy. ‘Be alert’, she seemed to say, though I wasn’t sure what she might mean by that.

“Er,” Alistair began doubtfully, “we’re looking for Brother Genitivi.”

“He’s not here,” the man said flatly, and began to close the door.

Alistair stuck his foot into the gap, and winced as the stout wood connected with his boot.

“Ow. Yes, but if we could just—”

“If we could just take a moment of your time,” Leliana put in, stepping gracefully forwards, her head tilted elegantly to the side. “We really won’t be more than a moment. It’s on behalf of the Chantry’s authentication committee, regarding some of Brother Genitivi’s work on the Birth Rock of the Blessed Andraste.”

She could lie with the ease of an evening shadow falling across a sundial, that woman. I tried to hide my smile as the figure behind the door reluctantly opened it another couple of inches, revealing a little more of himself. He seemed very young; no more than a boy, with a mop of curly black hair and tight-drawn, worried eyebrows. His thin hand, the fingers almost like spider’s legs, picked nervously at the wood of the door as he surveyed us.

“W-well, all right. If it’s important, I-I suppose….”

“Good man,” Alistair said briskly, and pushed the door fully open, propelling the lad gently backwards.

Leliana and I followed him in, past the cowed… well, apprentice, I supposed. He gave off that air, the sense of mild indecision and the absence of responsibility. I couldn’t help a twinge of unease as the door closed, and the latch clicked behind us. The whole place seemed to smell of musty paper, dirty floors, and a chimney that badly needed a clean.

“You’re the brother’s assistant, I take it?” Leliana smiled kindly at the boy.

“Y-yes, that’s right. W-Weylon. I’ve been with Brother Genitivi for nearly five years. But—”

Something was off. That much was obvious as we entered the cottage’s main room. A fire burned in the hearth, and the table was set with glasses and decanters, but there were no boots by the door, and the curtains hadn’t been drawn. A layer of dust edged the chair nearest the fire, I noticed.

“—why are you looking for him? I-If you have papers, you can leave them here, and—”

“So, he’s still off searching for the Urn of Sacred Ashes, is he?” Alistair smiled jovially. “That’s what we’d heard.”

“What?” Weylon blinked rapidly, fingers worrying at the cuff of his shirt, and shrugged. “Well, yes… he was on the trail of the Urn of Sacred Ashes, yes. Whether he found it, the Maker only knows. He hasn’t sent word for some time.”

The room wasn’t large, and it was edged with bookcases and shelves, each one of them crammed with curios as well as books. Bits of rock, crystals, clay tablets, statues… even the mantelpiece was loaded with obscure-looking odds and ends. I hardly dared move for fear of knocking something flying.

“We’d heard he may be missing,” Leliana said, as she crossed nonchalantly to the fireplace.

I saw what she was doing. It was the simple and innocent gesture of a guileless woman inspecting someone else’s knick-knacks… but she’d distanced herself from Alistair and me, and forced Weylon to divide his attention between us.

“I-I haven’t seen Brother Genitivi in weeks,” the boy said, shaking his head. “He’s sent no word; it’s so unlike him.”

“That must be a terrible worry for you,” Leliana said smoothly, picking up a small clay vase painted with a bright, strange, geometric pattern. Her gaze flicked back to him, sharp and quick as a blade. “Do you think something might have happened to him?”

I followed her lead, my calm, unhurried steps taking me to the bookshelves that filled the opposite wall. So many books… and all so well-used. The titles were rubbed off many of the spines, and some were parting company entirely from their bindings. A shelf in the middle held a roll of fine brushes, a block of wood, and a jar of fish glue.

“It _is_ possible Genitivi’s research into the Urn may have led him into danger,” Weylon conceded, glancing at me in unconcealed alarm, and apparently growing more uncomfortable by the second.

“Really?” Alistair sounded almost companionable. “Now, why would you think that?”

“Well, I-I… I don’t know. He was very excited when he left, and said he would be back with all the answers.” Weylon twisted the hem of his shirt in those thin, spidery hands, and bit his lip. “Perhaps something _has_ happened. Perhaps the Urn has been lost all these years for a reason.”

“You do believe it’s real, then?” I put in, causing the boy to gawp hopelessly at me.

“I-I didn’t say that!”

Part of me felt a little cruel for the way we were treating him, but he was so clearly hiding something… and part of me, on that day, might even have relished making a human squirm.

“I don’t know,” he protested. “That is, Genitivi thought so. _Thinks_ so, I mean…. Please, ser,” he added, looking imploringly at Alistair. “You see how it is, surely? I pray for my master’s safety, but hope dwindles with each passing day. What am I supposed to think?”

Leliana tutted. “Oh, you poor thing. It must be such a worry.”

As Weylon glanced at her, distracted, Alistair shot me a brief glance, then nodded to a door at the far end of the room. I followed his gaze and saw what had attracted his attention: the door was tight shut, a heavy iron key in its lock.

“Have you reported him missing, then?” Alistair asked. “There must be some clue as to where he was headed, some way of finding him.”

Weylon licked his lips and swallowed heavily. “W-well, I…. There were some knights who came from Redcliffe not long ago. They were looking for Genitivi too, and I-I told them everything I knew. But there’s been no word since, so I assume they’ve disappeared as well. Wouldn’t you think the worst, ser?”

The faint tang of human sweat marked the air, a sharp note against the must of paper and the soot-choked fire. The boy wasn’t as distraught over his master’s disappearance as much as he was desperate to see the back of us. That much was clear, and it worried me.

Alistair, however, was playing things nonchalantly. He sucked his teeth and looked over at Leliana, while I began to edge my way towards the locked door.

“We-ell, I don’t know. Maybe they took Genitivi back to Redcliffe with them.”

Weylon frowned. “I… I suppose that’s possible. I-I don’t know.”

“Oh, I think it is,” Leliana said encouragingly. “Perhaps if you tell us exactly what route the brother took when he left, then—”

“No, don’t ask me that! You mustn’t ask me that!” Weylon’s sweaty nervousness gave way suddenly to a high-pitched desperation, and he turned sharply to the fire, wringing his thin little hands. “Please… I can’t tell you. You’ll go after them, and what if ill-luck should befall you, too?”

He seemed genuinely afraid. I stepped a little closer to the door. It was probably Genitivi’s private study, I thought. The only place we might find some kind of organised clue in all this paper chaos.

“Oh,” Leliana said sweetly, “come now. You can tell us, I promise.”

The boy’s frown deepened and he stared wretchedly at her.

“Please… I don’t know. All Brother Genitivi said before he left was that he would be staying at an inn near Lake Calenhad, investigating something in that area.”

“Lake Calenhad?” Alistair echoed.

I was surprised, too. That should have put the brother within a couple of days of Redcliffe, if he’d ever even arrived at his destination. It seemed odd Ser Perth’s knights hadn’t managed to make that connection… or perhaps we were being fed an entirely different story to the one they’d been told. Either way, something felt very wrong indeed.

Alistair seemed to think the same. He frowned.

“Hmm. And I don’t suppose you know anything else?”

Weylon shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. I’m just Brother Genitivi’s assistant. I… I just follow instructions.”

There was an odd, plaintive note clinging to those words. I didn’t like it one little bit.

“You won’t mind if we take a look around, then?” I asked, reaching my hand to the locked door, and its heavy iron key.

At once, Weylon whirled around, his pallid face suddenly flushed with panicked anger.

“No! I-I mean, you mustn’t go in there!”

“Oh?” I arched my brows. “Why not?”

He wet his lips, his gaze darting nervously around the room as he struggled to keep all three of us in his sight. The firelight caught at a thin sheen of sweat beading on his forehead.

“That room isn’t for guests. It’s full of Genitivi’s private papers, and they mustn’t be disturbed.”

“Oh, we’ll be careful,” Alistair said cheerfully. “We won’t mess anything up.”

My fingers closed on the cool metal of the door handle.

“I said no,” Weylon snapped. “Don’t touch that door!”

He flung his hands out, and the air seemed to split around them. The smell of dry books and the open fire was lost beneath a great, violent wave of magical energy, roaring in a peal of white flame. I threw myself to the ground, rolled, and cursed the way my brown dress tangled itself around my legs. Leliana ducked and wove, her Chantry robe a flare of red and gold as she rounded behind Weylon—or whoever he really was—and pulled a dagger from her boot.

He spun, sending a bolt of fire towards her, his face contorted by a wordless scream of terrified rage. Flamelight danced over his narrow features, making him seem so young and fragile, yet there was some inner core driving the boy—some anger, some kind of desperate passion—that frightened me. I got to my feet as Alistair charged into him, body slamming body with a dull thud. He landed one good punch to the mage’s jaw, but it didn’t keep him down for long… he was far more powerful than he looked. As Alistair pulled back, wincing and shaking out his bloodied hand, magic burned the air. White light seared my eyes, and I heard Leliana cry out.

My fingers closed on the wooden chair that stood by the fireplace and, as Weylon turned, an orb of crackling energy already swelling between his palms, I swung the thing round, straight into the backs of his knees.

He swore, sagged, and lost his spell, that momentary lapse of concentration was enough. Leliana lunged forwards, and all I saw was the brief flash of steel, then a cravat of red that gulped erratically down the front of the young mage’s shirt. His spider-like hands flexed on empty air, his mouth slackening, and his eyes bulged a little as he blinked. He seemed to murmur something, then folded slowly to the floor. Blood pooled on the bare boards as his body stilled, and after that terrible roar of magic and anger, the room seemed horribly quiet.

I looked down at the vacantly staring eyes, and the blood-wet curls, then glanced up at my companions.

“Everyone all right?”

Alistair nodded. Between us, a few split knuckles and some bumps and bruises were barely worth noticing.

Leliana had pulled a square of cloth from a pouch at her belt, and was carefully wiping her dagger upon it. She pursed her lips as she slipped the blade back into her boot.

“It is a shame that poor boy had to be so difficult. I do not like all this death.”

“Well, he _did_ start it,” Alistair pointed out, crossing to the locked door that had caused all the trouble. “Wonder what he was so keen to protect?”

I rubbed my palm absently against the rough broadcloth of my dress, unnerved by those blank, dead eyes, and the dancing reflections of firelight in the pooling blood. That all-too-familiar smell, like old copper, lodged itself at the back of my throat, and it seemed strange not to find it laced with rotted flesh or sweat and hot steel. Simple death, untouched by anything demonic or foul, still had power over me then.

“Don’t know,” I managed, as Alistair jiggled the key and gave the door a hearty shove. “But I get the feeling things just got more complicated.”

Alistair snorted. “Huh. You can say that again.”

The door finally gave way, and he stepped into Brother Genitivi’s study, raising his voice for us as he started to ferret through in search of clues.

“Hey, there’s a lot of stuff back here. I don’t think Genitivi ever threw anything away. It looks like there might be something in… oh, Maker’s breath, what is that _smell_? It— oh. Eww.”

Leliana and I exchanged looks, and then Alistair re-emerged, nose wrinkled and eyes narrowed.

“I, er, I don’t think our surly friend there was the real Weylon,” he said, nodding to the corpse on the floor. “I think he’s in here. Or… most of him, anyway.”

I swore under my breath. Wonderful. And, with our luck, there’d be a Watch patrol on the doorstep any second, enquiring about the strange noises in a usually peaceful sidestreet. How observant were the neighbours, anyway? I supposed it was just a blessing the mage’s fire spells hadn’t managed to send this entire place up like a tinderbox.

“Then, for all we know, Brother Genitivi could be dead too,” Leliana said doubtfully. “But who would do something like this? Kill his assistant and try to take his place? That’s just—”

“We’ll have time to work out why later,” I said, glancing at the unshuttered windows. Anyone could have glimpsed in by now. “But, if the brother was dead, why stay here anyway? And why feed us that Lake Calenhad story?”

Alistair grimaced. “Good point. There’s something fishy about this whole thing.”

“Mm.” I bit my lip. “There is. We should get out of here… but not without seeing if there’s anything we can use. I’ll check the back of the house.”

“I’ll take in here,” Leliana volunteered, eyeing the shelves as if she thought some clue might be hidden among the tomes.

“Oh, good,” Alistair said darkly. “I’ll just go and… see if there’s anything under the decomposing body, then.”

We split up and searched the house with an efficiency of purpose that was almost cold. I’d like to say it was something I didn’t recognise in myself; that I was at odds with the girl who stepped calmly over the corpse of the mage and headed into the kitchen… but it was simply necessity that drove me.

There are things that can compel all of us, perhaps, to do the grimmest deeds.

Nausea lurched in me when I saw the congealed blood, half-scrubbed from the dirty flagstones. It was, I assumed, where Brother Genitivi’s assistant had been killed, and possibly dismembered. I tried not to dwell on it, and not to think at all as I stole two loaves of stale bread, several bags of dried peas and beans, some salt fish, and a dried blood sausage from the pantry.

After a moment’s consideration, I put the blood sausage back.

Alistair had turned up little of value, except an old notebook that seemed to be in Genitivi’s hand. Mostly illegible, it contained vast tracts of excited scrawl, maps, diagrams and what, to me, looked like nothing more than the ramblings of a madman. He also had a stack of books, their bindings ragged and one half-burnt, and I raised my eyebrow suspiciously.

“A little light reading?”

He curled his lip. “Well, you know how easily I get bored in the evenings. No… these were hidden, along with the notebook. Like someone didn’t want them found. See this one?” Alistair held up a squat volume with a grubby, singed cover of dark blue leather. “A history of dragon cults. What does anyone need a book on Tevinter dragon cults for?”

I shrugged. “I’m not sure it’s got anything to do with Brother Genitivi going missing, but if you want to take them….”

Alistair didn’t appear to be listening. He was looking over my shoulder at Leliana, and he widened his eyes incredulously.

“Oh, no. We’re not—”

“I think our current need is greater than his, Alistair,” she said gently, glancing at the mage’s cooling body.

Two fat coin purses clinked in her hands. Behind her, at the far end of the room, a compartment hidden behind a dummy back to one of the bookshelves hung open. Clever, I thought, realising it hadn’t been clues to the brother’s whereabouts that Leliana had recognised in the room, but telltale hints of a far more material nature.

“It’s _stealing_ ,” Alistair protested. “Actual stealing. Of money. Which is wrong. That’s probably the poor man’s life savings, or—”

“Which he won’t need if he does turn out to be dead,” I said crisply. “Come on. We need to go. Now.”

He sighed, and nodded miserably. “Yes, yes. All right. Fine.”

His misgivings aside, we bundled our loot up in a tablecloth, which I carried, and made for the city gates. Outside, the sky was bathed in red, afire with burnished coils of cloud. The air had grown cool and thick, laced with dew, and rarely had I been so pleased to leave anywhere.

I don’t think I looked back as we put the city behind us, and that almost shocked me. I still knew Denerim as my home, the core of everything, and whatever had been burned out of my heart it should still have held _something_. And yet, I didn’t even spare a silent prayer for Father as my feet ate away at the cobbles. My family, my home, my old life… all gone, doused in yet more bloodshed. I should not have been so eager to cast away the memories and the echoes of the past, or to bury the whispers of my dead.

We pulled away from the massed knots of traders, pilgrims, and travellers, and headed back onto the West Road, with the intention of cutting south to the pass—and the rendezvous point—by moonlight if we had to. I drove the pace hard, stomping my way along the road without thought or consideration for the others… not that they struggled to keep up. Things were very quiet, though. Subdued to the point of discomfort.

“What d’you think it means?” Alistair ventured, after a while, as the sky deepened out above us, and midges began to fly in the dusk. “Those books of Genitivi’s… dragons and everything.”

“Dunno.” I shrugged, and didn’t break stride. At least he was taking a turn carrying the bundle of things we’d thieved.

“Well, this _is_ the Dragon Age,” Leliana put in. “Perhaps he is interested in the symbolism. You know, I heard there was a high dragon in the Frostback Mountains. Razed a whole village, they say. They are apparently very majestic creatures.”

“Hm.” Alistair sounded doubtful. “Not when you’re getting toasted by one, I imagine. Or stomped on. Or chomped in half. Or—”

Leliana pulled a face. “Oh, stop it! That sounds awful.”

“Well, it’s probably not fun,” he admitted. “I don’t think it’s meant to be. Death by dragon.”

“We’re not going to fight dragons,” I called over my shoulder, realising even as I said it that I was missing a particularly salient point. “Except the… you know.”

Something flittered overhead—an early bat, maybe, or an owl waking for the night—and I nearly flinched, the echoes of nightmares past stretching their black wings above me.

“Yes.” Alistair nodded sagely. “Of course, the _you know_ might not even _be_ a real dragon. Have you thought of that? I mean, it looks like it, in the… you-know-whats. But it might not be. It could be a thingummy.”

I laughed at his daft wordplay, despite myself, and despite every dream or vision I’d had of a huge, dark beast made completely of horns and claws and teeth, railing against its imprisonment and screaming its rage deep in the heart of the earth.

Leliana looked confused. “What in the Maker’s name are you two talking about?”

“The archdemon,” Alistair said helpfully. “ _You_ know. The you-know-what. Big dragony thing, huge teeth, talons the size of a man’s arm, innumerable hordes of darkspawn in thrall to its evil will? Pesky thing.”

My grin widened, and Leliana shook her head in quiet disbelief.

**_~o~O~o~_ **

We got the rendezvous point well before the others. I wasn’t sure whether that was a good sign or not. It seemed eminently possible Morrigan and Sten would have torn each other apart somewhere deep in the forest, while Zevran absconded into the night with the rest of the money and any saleable goods he could lift.

Still, there wasn’t much point fretting. Alistair set to building a fire, whistling tunelessly as he worked, and I sat down to rest at the edge of the clearing, realising for the first time that day how sore my feet were.

I barely heard Leliana draw up behind me, only the soft rustle of her robes giving her away.

“Are you all right?” she asked, lowering herself to the ground beside me.

I blinked, aware of how impossibly graceful she managed to be, even when she was hunkering down in the mud. “Hmm?”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Those glass-hard eyes softened as she gazed at me, filling with a compassion that was frightening in its sheer depth. “About the alienage… the purge. I heard people saying Loghain had—”

“I don’t know exactly what’s happened,” I said, perhaps a little too shortly.

“But, your family…?”

I looked away, unable to withstand Leliana’s welling fount of pity.

“They could well be dead, yes.” I shrugged. “Probably are. I don’t know. The guard wouldn’t let me in. They… they’ve closed it all off. Walled everyone up.”

I swallowed heavily, wishing I could wall up the surreal melding of memories and imaginings that tainted my mind. I kept picturing dead bodies with familiar faces, burned ruins and the shouts of guardsmen, and there was nothing I could do about any of it.

“I’m sorry,” Leliana said softly.

She touched my shoulder, and squeezed very gently. I looked up, a little startled, and I could have drowned in the sadness of her smile. It was cloying, suffocating… and so painfully genuine. I didn’t quite know how to respond.

“If they are dead, then I am sure they will have gone to the Maker’s side,” she said, with calm certainty. “If not, you will see them again. I feel sure of that. And, whatever the pain you feel now, both of those things are cause to be glad, no?”

I struggled to see how there was any jollity whatsoever in meeting your end on the point of a pikestaff, or in the months of sickness and deprivation that would follow the purge for survivors. I’d heard enough of Father’s stories to know why the wrath of the city was something we feared—why we were prepared to walk the lines the humans gave us—and I wasn’t about to bloody smile over it.

But, Leliana was trying to help. So, I smothered my anger, and nodded.

“Thank you.”

She inclined her head, that soft smile widening. “I will pray for them, if I may.”

I managed to choke out a smile in return, and a strangled ‘thank you’, and that seemed to be enough.

Alistair had finally finished with the fire, and was breaking out stolen bread and a few rations of mousetrap cheese. Glad of the distraction, I moved over to join him, and the three of us settled around the flames. The brooding silhouette of the forest seemed to creep closer, this whole area folding around us like some insidious grasp. The point where the pass carved through the hills, fringed with trees and brush, seemed to be an afterthought, an intrusion in a landscape that felt wild… wilder still for how comparatively close it was to the city. Denerim wouldn’t be half so well protected without Dragon’s Peak, I thought to myself, and fell to thinking idly about how defensible it would be if the horde made it this far.

 _Or when, perhaps._

Of course, there wasn’t much to stop the darkspawn, was there? Only us… which wasn’t saying a lot. My stomach tightened at the mere thought, and the hunk of bread I was chewing on suddenly seemed leaden and bitter.

“I hope they’re all right,” Leliana remarked, casting a nervous glance up at the sky. “The others, I mean. I thought they’d be here by now.”

“Yes… unless Morrigan’s killed and eaten them all.”

“Alistair!” she chided, though she couldn’t hide her smile.

“Or left them for dead in the middle of the forest,” he added thoughtfully, and glanced enquiringly at me. “Which d’you think’s more likely?”

I shrugged. “Hard to say. You really think she could take Sten down? He’s pretty fast for a big guy.”

Leliana tutted and shook her head. Alistair just grinned at me.

“Yes, but she’s _sneaky_. And evil.”

“I don’t know… it’d still be three on one,” I said doubtfully. “Four, if you count the dog. I know she’s impressive, but—”

Alistair nodded sagely. “Never underestimate an apostate. First thing they tell you in templar training, that is… apart from where the lavatories are, and the rules for Confession Day pillow fights.”

I sniggered, and Leliana gave a small sigh. For just a second, I was reminded of Duncan, just before the smoke and chaos of battle broke out, as Alistair made a joke about shimmying down the darkspawn line in a frock, and I’d been unable to control my giggles. At the time, I’d taken his sigh for weary resignation, and yet now I couldn’t help thinking of the affection underscored in it… or all the kindnesses he’d shown me on our long ride from Denerim.

It seemed so unfair that he was gone.

I shook the thoughts abruptly, unwilling to allow myself the indulgence of that parade of broken memories. So many people, all lost, and _I_ was still here.

“So,” Alistair said, breaking the silence that had begun to fall, “assuming they _do_ turn up, what do we do? Go to Lake Calenhad? I’m not sure I believe that story about Brother Genitivi being there.”

“I don’t,” Leliana said, with uncharacteristic bluntness. “Whatever was going on in that house, and whoever that boy was, you can wager there’s someone behind it who doesn’t want the brother found. I think that can only mean one thing.”

I glanced up at her, my heart sinking a little at the look of righteous determination that sharpened her features. The firelight played off the red of her hair, and brought roses to her pale cheeks. I knew exactly what she was going to say.

“Well?” Leliana looked impatiently between us. “Isn’t it obvious? The Urn of Sacred Ashes has been discovered. That is powerful knowledge. Whoever knows the location has taken steps to ensure it remains protected.”

“Or,” Alistair said thoughtfully, poking a stick into the depths of the fire, “Brother Genitivi was heavily in debt and staged his own disappearance to avoid his creditors. What?”

“Including murdering his own assistant and placing an impostor in his house?” She scowled. “I hardly think a religious scholar—”

“We don’t know what sort of man he is!” Alistair protested. “I’m just saying, it all seems a bit convenient that—”

“Of course it’s convenient! It’s probably a trap.”

“Oh, so we should just blunder cheerfully into it, then? What if—”

“Look,” I cut in, wondering at his propensity for picking fights with women, and still not entirely sure whether it was some peculiar way humans had of flirting with each other, “I don’t see what else we can do, except go back to Redcliffe and tell Bann Teagan and Lady Isolde what we’ve learned.”

An uncomfortable moment of silence settled between the three of us, and I knew it was up to me to voice the unspoken words. I sighed.

“And, if we do that, the arlessa is only going to want to know what’s at Lake Calenhad. If… if Arl Eamon is still alive by the time we return, that is.”

I didn’t like saying it. I didn’t like the sober flinch that passed over Alistair’s face, either. He frowned.

“Yes. You’re right. We can’t _not_ investigate it, can we? Even if it is all a bit….”

“Exactly.” I stared gloomily into the fire, and watched the sparks leap at its heart. “It’s either that, or tell them we can’t waste any more time, and head west for Orzammar, and the other treaties. I’m not even sure it’s worth pursuing the Dalish.”

Alistair shook his head. “We need them. We need Redcliffe’s forces, too. You know that. The numbers are bad enough anyway, and if we’re to have any hope of—”

“I know.”

We lapsed into uneasy quiet. No one liked facing the impossibilities in our futures. Leliana shivered.

“It’s getting cold. I hope they’re not long.” She glanced down towards the road, and narrowed her eyes. “What’s that? Is that…? Is that a wagon?”

She was right. Beyond the crackle of the fire and the rustling of things in the bushes, the distant creak of an axle touched the air, and a dark shape was rumbling towards the mouth of the pass.

I rose to my feet, craning to get a better look. It seemed to be laden down with goods, which was strange. What merchant would be travelling at this time of night? Stranger still was the shadow loping along beside the wagon… a very familiar shadow that, as the cart neared the curve in the road, picked up its speed and gave a joyful bark.

A grin split my face. I’d have known that hound anywhere.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the disastrous trip to Denerim, the group meets at the rendezvous point... with a few extra guests in tow.

Maethor bore me to the muddy ground as I ran to meet the wagon, his stubby tail wagging enthusiastically and his enormous jaws wide open, great strings of slobber flying with every delighted lick.

“Wh… what…?” I managed, trying to peer over the hound to see what was going on, albeit with limited success.

The cart stilled at the mouth of the pass, and the heavy pair of oxen pulling it nodded their heads, breath steaming as they grunted at the night air. Thick candles in glass lanterns were set atop the driver’s box, where a dwarf with a neatly braided beard and a heavily embroidered tunic sat holding the whip. He looked past me and smiled genially at Alistair.

“You’re the Grey Warden, then, ser?”

His voice was rather high and sharp, marked with a born salesman’s easy charm, and an accent that I couldn’t quite place.

“Er…,” Alistair began, as two familiar figures dismounted from the back of the cart.

I began to tense. We’d worked very hard at _not_ identifying ourselves as Wardens, and my first thought was this was some kind of trap, some kind of—

“Yes,” Morrigan announced, her air of weary resignation not quite covering the flash of relief in her face as she surveyed the three of us. “These are they. The suspicious, dim-witted one… and the elf.”

Maethor got off me and sat by my side, tongue lolling from between the white bars of his teeth as Morrigan gave me a look that wasn’t entirely disparaging.

“Nice to see you too,” I managed, clambering to my feet and brushing myself off, still decidedly wary. “What…?”

Sten stood at her shoulder, his impressive bulk outlined with the stains of thin moonlight glimmering on his custom-built armour. His expression was as inscrutable as ever, heavy brows drawn tight over those glittering violet eyes.

“Where’s Wynne?” Alistair demanded. “And Zevran? And who’s—”

Maethor barked, wagged his tail again, and capered off to the back end of the wagon. I could see another man disembarking, giving his hand to assist Wynne down, and there seemed to be two more figures climbing out from among the packed crates, bundles and barrels… another dwarf, and the slim, golden-haired outline of Zevran. Relief washed through me, but it was still heavily rimed with uncertainty.

“ _Someone_ ,” Morrigan said coldly, folding her arms across her bosom, “required urgent healing of a standard the old woman was not able to provide.”

“Healing?” Dread lurched in my gut. “What…?”

Wynne glared at the witch and, behind her, I saw Zevran smile sheepishly as he got down from the wagon and stepped—or, rather, limped—forwards. One arm was tightly bound in a sling, and his showy, leg-baring armour was gone, replaced by a simple linen shirt and rough, rather tatty breeches. He shrugged nonchalantly, and didn’t quite manage to hide the wince of pain the action evoked.

“You Fereldans,” he sneered. “You have such a distaste for civilisation, you cannot be content with bandits in your forests. Even the trees themselves must be bloodthirsty. It is quite simply ridiculous.”

My incomprehension reached such dizzying new heights that I decided the stresses of the day must finally have driven me mad. I stared blankly at him.

“You got into a fight with a tree?” Alistair snorted. “What? You fell out of it? Or—”

“No,” Sten said shortly, the syllable rolling across the conversation like a boulder. He gave a sound like a small growl at the back of his throat, as if he disapproved strongly of what he was about to say, and wished that his disapproval alone was enough to change its reality. “The forest. Its trees have… life. Of a kind. Some are possessed. They strike without warning, and with great anger.”

Beside me, Leliana gasped softly. I glanced at her in surprise, amazed I could have forgotten how soundlessly she moved.

“Oh… I had always wondered if it was truly so. They say the Brecilian Forest has seen so much death that the Veil itself is drawn thin there. I had heard tales of it being haunted, but—” She put a hand to her mouth as she surveyed Zevran’s wounds. “You poor thing. Were you badly hurt?”

He smirked. “I survived. But, if you are concerned, I am sure I will need my dressings changed….”

“He is fine,” Morrigan cut in. “He is still _speaking_. Incessantly, I might add.”

She glowered, and his smile widened. For all her show of annoyance, it looked to me as if there was a note of relief, or maybe even pride, in those golden eyes, and I wondered exactly what had happened. Zevran wasn’t clumsy by nature, after all.

Yet, as I glanced at the crowded merchant’s wagon, the two dwarves, and the other man who had alighted, distinct unease settled over me. They appeared to be doing their best to ignore the conversation—doing everything but whistling nonchalantly and staring at the sky—and yet it remained that our band had been reunited in the presence of strangers… and strangers that it seemed we owed a debt to, at that.

The notion worried me, and I shivered as a cold night breeze slipped through the grass. A little way into the pass, set back from sight of the road, our campfire was still burning. I wasn’t sure whether it was safe to head back there.

“I’m afraid we were a little slow off the mark,” Wynne said, by way of explanation. “Or, _I_ was. My reflexes may not be all they once were… but, without Zevran, the rest of me would be a little less intact, too.”

I felt my eyebrows climb incredulously and, as I opened my mouth to ask what she meant, Alistair took the words right out of it.

“Wait, what? Hold on… you were injured trying to _help_ —”

Zevran shrugged, affecting uncharacteristic modesty, and said nothing.

“None of us expected the attack,” Morrigan snapped. “We were less than half a morning’s journey into the forest when it happened. And, as much as it pains me to admit, the assassin probably saved our lives. However, his wounds were more than I knew how to heal, and the old woman was of little use, so—”

“Wynne, are you all right?” Alistair asked at once, to which the mage smiled and nodded.

“I was winded, that’s all. I’m much better now. Really.”

She looked tired, I noticed; even more so than the rest of us. It had probably been worse than she was prepared to confess, especially given the tautness in Morrigan’s face. For her, I suspected that whatever had happened had been tantamount to a failure… and she didn’t react well to that.

“—as I was _saying_ ,” she said crisply, narrowing those golden eyes, “we were forced to retreat in search of aid. We were… extremely fortunate to encounter it.”

Morrigan glanced towards the cart, arms still tightly folded across her chest. The dwarven driver set aside his whip and climbed down from his perch, striding forwards with a confidence that—never having met any of his kind before—I found odd in someone even shorter than me.

“Bodahn Feddic’s my name,” he announced cheerfully, grinning first at Alistair, and then me. “Merchant and entrepreneur. This is my boy, Sandal. Say hello to the Grey Wardens, Sandal.”

He held out his arm, looking to the shadowy figure of the other dwarf, who was loitering beside the cart. He came slumping forwards, and I gathered from his broad, clear, moon-like face that he was what Father would have called simple… and what mostly everyone else in the alienage would have called backward. The daughter of one of the dockhands who lived in the same tenement as Soris had been that way. Sweet girl, as I recalled; until she ended up with a round-eared baby she didn’t understand how she’d come by, and her father tried to hide her shame by keeping both of them locked indoors.

I blinked away the recollection, and the painful thoughts that swallowed it, and did my best to smile at the young, blond dwarven boy, with those peculiarly pale, bright eyes. He twisted his thick fingers together, his lips moulded into a coil of uncertainty as he stared up at Alistair, then glanced at me.

“Hello,” he said, very deliberately, and began to blush.

“Hello, Sandal,” I said, as kindly as I could manage. “Um…?”

Maethor gave one of those talkative canine grunts and bounded away from my side, lolloping over to the boy. Sandal’s face split into an immense grin and—from the way he fell to his knees, fussing the mabari and chuckling happily at the enthusiastic licks to his cheeks he received in return—I guessed he and the hound had already started forging a bond.

“And this,” Bodahn added, before I had a chance to form a full question, “is my business associate, Levi Dryden.”

The other man was a thin-faced human in a worn but well-tailored jerkin, a good linen shirt, and wide cloth trousers. A heavy belt at his waist, hung with tallies and scrips, marked him out as a merchant, and his light brown hair was pinned in a loop at the back of his neck, with two thin braids hanging at his temples. He came forwards nervously, and looked between Alistair and me with a smile so ingratiating as to be oily.

“My pleasure, ser… and, um, miss.”

I nodded at him, and shot Alistair a perplexed glance. He rubbed a weary hand over his forehead, and looked about as confused as I felt.

“Yes, hello. Er, look, I’m sure we’re all very grateful, but… what exactly—?”

“We met them on the West Road,” Wynne explained. “They were looking for you. For the Grey Wardens.”

Alarm bells had already been ringing in my ears… and yet these people didn’t seem like bounty hunters.

“That’s right,” Levi Dryden assured, beaming awkwardly. “And, lemme tell you, you’re ’ard people to find. There’s been rumours ever since Ostagar that some of you got away, but… no, where are my manners? We should make camp for the night, shouldn’t we? Plenty of time to talk, and I expect your friend needs rest.”

His weaselly glance flickered to Zevran, who held up his one unbound hand.

“Please. I’ve been worse. Although, for what it’s worth, I can assure you these gentlemen seem honest enough.”

There was a beat of hesitation in the air, the damp and the dark drawing in all around us, caught as we were between the mountains and the forest. I let a sigh leak from me, part defeat and part some small, secret hope that maybe this insanity was a good thing in disguise. We were due some luck, weren’t we?

“I… I suppose we should thank you for your help,” I said, looking from Dryden to the dwarf. “We have a fire, just up the ridge. And the rest of our gear….”

Bodahn smiled broadly at me. “All on the cart,” he said, and I got the oddest feeling that, somehow, it was going to cost us money. “Much obliged, I’m sure. Much obliged. Right, then! Come along, Sandal, look lively… let’s get settled, shall we?”

Before I knew it, I was jumping back out of the way, and the ox-cart was rumbling past, up to the mouth of the pass. We’d suddenly swelled from a party of three to eleven, and the babble of voices and movement on the air seemed loud and chaotic.

Still, there wasn’t much to do but follow on. The tents were already being unloaded, and the fire stoked up… and no matter how screamingly strange it felt, I had to admit I was curious.

**_~o~O~o~_ **

It had been a long, strange day, and it got stranger.

We gathered around the fire, sitting in the lee of the wagon, tents lazily pitched for the bare minimum of shelter on what promised, for once, to be a dry night. There were good, solid rations—fairly fresh bread, salt meat, cheese, and skins of water and wine—that paled what we’d stolen from Brother Genitivi’s house into insignificance, and so much to talk about.

The full story of Zevran’s injury would, I suspected, develop into a heavily embroidered anecdote with successive tellings. The arm now bound into a sling had been ripped open, the bleeding heavy and uncontrolled. Wynne, knocked out by the first blow of the tree-spirit, or demon, or whatever it was we were to call them—and, honestly, the whole concept of mobile, violent trees was definitely something I was still adjusting to—had been in no state to stem or treat the wound. Between them, Sten, Maethor, and Morrigan had vanquished the… thing… but they’d been forced to collect the wounded and flee back through the pass in search of help.

It had been sheer good luck that, as they stumbled back to the road, they’d met Bodahn and Levi’s wagon. The merchants had offered aid, and healing potions, and even taken them to a bone-setter half a day south-east of the city, which was where they’d been returning from at the late hour we’d seen them arrive.

It all seemed far too fortunate to me, and far too like coincidence—not something we could afford to trust—but as Levi Dryden took over the tale, I had to admit he sounded very genuine. There was a certain greasy, panicked honesty to the man that was difficult to ignore.

They’d been on our tails for nearly a week, he said. Come all the way from the west, originally, up past the Frostbacks, and had been meaning to head to Ostagar, before they caught the news of the massacre.

“What business did you have there?” Alistair asked warily.

“Wee-eell,” Levi said, leaning forwards and warming his palms over the fire, “I was meant to see a friend of mine.Duncan. I’m sure you knew him, seeing as how he was the leader of—”

“Yes. I knew Duncan.” Alistair’s voice fell heavily across the merchant’s words and, as he nodded briefly at me, I saw the pained look in his eyes. “We both did. He… he was my mentor.”

Levi’s face softened. “Ah. I’m sorry. What happened down there… it was a tragedy, it was.”

“Yes,” Alistair said tightly. “It was.”

The firelight daubed shadows across his face, and the civilian clothes that he still wore, suddenly so at odds with the way his posture had stiffened, his back ram-rod straight and his shoulders tense.

I cleared my throat. “How did you know Duncan, if you don’t my asking?”

Levi blinked, and seemed to brighten. “Oh, we went years back, we did. I done a lot of trading with the Wardens… well, all around, really. Levi of the Coins, they call me. Heh… Levi the Trader.”

He flashed that obsequious grin again, and rubbed his palms against his knees, glancing at his gathered audience.

On the other side of the fire, Sandal, the dwarven boy, was sitting on the ground with Maethor. He had his arms around the mabari’s neck, giggling quietly while his father sank a skin of wine. The rest of our companions were sitting close by, all of us drawn around the flames like moths, and it was strangely convivial. Even Sten and Morrigan had stayed at the centre of the makeshift camp, instead of withdrawing to their respective corners at the first opportunity.

I tried to smile encouragingly, and nodded. “Yes?”

Levi coughed. “We-ell… it’s a bit of a tale, to be honest, but I was there when the Grey Wardens come back to Ferelden, I was. I… well, I was one of the ones what spoke out on your order’s behalf. There were a lot of us, but… yes, I was there.”

He licked his lips nervously, that thin, ferret-like face lit with the glow of remembered pride.

Alistair frowned incredulously. “What, when King Maric rescinded Arland’s decree?”

Levi nodded, and I must have looked nonplussed, because he took pity on me and added an explanation.

“First Grey Wardens in Ferelden for a century, they were. After Maric, Andraste bless him, freed us from the Orlesians, the Wardens begged to meet with him—some internal business or other—and there was a mess of us sympathisers who spoke out. Well… Teyrn Loghain was dead set against having them set foot across the border—”

“No surprises there,” Alistair muttered, at which the trader grinned.

“—being foreign and all, but the king was a fair-minded man, and he let them in. So, I was there when Commander Genevieve presented herself to the king. Proudest day of my life, that was.”

His narrow chest puffed up, eyes shining, and I tried to picture the events he spoke of. It all seemed a very long way off; those twining complexities of politics and legality that had never had a place in my life.

I frowned. “So… that’s when you met Duncan?”

Levi nodded. “Yep. Over twenty years ago, now.”

About the time Duncan had tried to recruit my mother, then. The thought reared up, unbidden, and I had to bite down hard on it, pushing it back into the dark, alongside all the more recent horrors I needed to hide there. Levi took a slug from a skin of wine Wynne passed along to him, and laughed as he lowered it from his lips.

“Hah… ’course, Duncan was a bit of a scamp back then, would you believe.”

Well, _that_ was an unexpected description. I glanced at Alistair, expecting him to be shocked, or possibly offended, and was surprised to see him just smiling into the fire, as if some tender memory had been touched.

Levi shook his head fondly. “We were of an age, and we struck up a friendship. ’Course, the king himself went with the Wardens on their mysterious business. Then, when he returned, he repealed King Arland’s ban on the order, and the Wardens came back to Ferelden for good.”

“One wonders,” Morrigan said archly, from her position opposite us, glowering across the flames, “what they did to get themselves expelled in the first place.”

I was surprised at her taking an interest in the tale, even if it was to poke fun. Alistair opened his mouth, presumably to tell her to shut up, but Levi appeared to have hit his stride, and answered fluidly.

“We-ell… can’t rightly say, really, can you? Some reckon it’s because the Wardens had become terribly unpopular, just soaking up tithes and not doing a bleeding thing for the kingdom.” He sniffed, and cast a look around the camp. “’Course, I say that’s bollocks, as recent events have shown.”

Alistair, who’d just taken a swig from the wine skin, coughed, and Levi grinned.

“Oh, yeah… we ’eard, on our travels, what you done at Redcliffe, and all about how the Circle of Magi stands behind the Wardens. There’s rumours flying from the Bannorn to Amaranthine about how the Grey Wardens have survived, and shall bring an end to the Blight, whatever Teyrn Loghain says. Make no mistake,” he added, leaning in to the fire, his face earnest and oddly intense, “there’s plenty who’ll come to your banner, right enough. The Grey Wardens have loyal supporters, all through Ferelden.”

A sense of faint dizziness tugged at me, like I was standing on a high parapet, peering over the edge at some great plain laid out below me, and not knowing what was about to come charging across it. It felt very odd, and very uncomfortable, to be on the receiving end of those words, fine and grand though they might have been.

I looked at Alistair, rather hoping he might handle this one. The wine skin hung slackly in his fingers, and a mildly stunned expression had settled on his face, coupled with an uncertain awkwardness.

“Er… right,” he said, fumbling a bit with the wine skin as he passed along to me, and shooting me a pleading look that left me no other option but to smile at Levi, and incline my head.

“Thank you.” I nodded to the trader, who beamed expectantly, and a sea of dread lapped within me.

I didn’t like the undercurrent that clung to this story of his: the twenty-year-old revolution of a visionary, a king whose blood ran in the veins of the man sitting beside me. Whether Alistair liked it or not—whether anyone knew it or not—he united both the Theirin line and the myth of the Grey Wardens… and if it _did_ come to civil war, that was a potent weapon for us. He might not have wanted the truth broadcast, and I certainly had no intention of making it public, but even then I wondered if we’d have a choice. Levi had already mentioned rumours and, however much I still clung to the hope that we would be able to make Loghain see the Blight’s true threat, and avoid unnecessary bloodshed, I was uneasy about what might lie ahead.

What unsettled me most, I think, was the fire and pride in the man’s eyes. When he looked at us—when he looked at Alistair—he saw memories of heroes… and that struck me as dangerous.

“So.” I cleared my throat, because evidently no one else was going to ask the relevant questions. “When you were heading to Ostagar, to meet Duncan… what exactly…?”

I glanced across the fire at Bodahn, who had been quiet all through Levi’s tale, and now smiled cheerfully at me.

“Oh, we joined up on the road, miss,” he said, with a nod at Sandal. “The boy and I left Orzammar behind us, didn’t we? That’s where we’re from originally. Heard a great many tales about the Grey Wardens there, that’s true…. When I heard Master Dryden was trying to make his way to the king’s camp, well, I thought to myself, it was our duty to combine our efforts.”

His smile widened, small blue eyes glittering in that broad, ruddy face, his braided beard resting like laurels against his chest. He was lying. If I’d had to put money on it, I’d have said he was running from something, but I didn’t know enough to guess what, and the time wasn’t right to ask. Besides, at that point, Sandal looked up very gravely, and nodded.

“We left Orzammar,” he said, apparently with great deliberation.

Bodahn chuckled indulgently. “That’s right! That’s right, my boy. Maybe one day we’ll see it again.”

Sandal didn’t seem to have an opinion on that; he just went back to stroking Maethor’s ears. I watched the hound’s stubby tail wag happily, and wished—not for the first time—that I could take such simple joy in life, moment by moment.

“Truth of the matter was,” Levi said carefully, weighing his words, “I had a favour to ask of Duncan. Something we’d talked about before, like.”

I blinked. Somehow, that didn’t seem remotely surprising.

“A favour?” Alistair echoed. “What kind of favour?”

The trader gave us another ferrety grin. “We-ell… my family, y’see… bit of a chequered past. Been looked at for some years with an element of disdain.”

“Oh?”

I heard the note of sarcasm in Alistair’s tone, but I wasn’t sure if Levi did; he was already embarking on the tale of his forebears. The man could evidently talk the hind leg off a donkey, or any other given pack animal.

“My great-great-grandmother, Sophia Dryden, was the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, back when the Wardens were known as freeloaders. So, when King Arland banished the order, he took all of House Dryden’s land and titles.” Levi wrinkled his nose, jutting his chin forwards as he frowned into the fire. “’Course, when he died, there was a huge civil war. Lot of papers lost, things destroyed and all turned around…. We rebuilt, became merchants. Us Drydens are tough, you see? And we never lost our pride.”

I rubbed my fingers along my arm, suddenly feeling the night’s chill through the thin cloth of my dress. There was something horribly familiar about those words—that stubborn, indomitable refusal to give in, to cease clinging to the wreckage of a name, an identity. I couldn’t help thinking of Goldanna, and how much a vision of home she’d seemed to me, with all her tired bitterness and worn-down spite.

We weren’t so different, my people and the shems. Not so different as I’d thought, or been told, or grown up believing we were… and it was the hardest time possible to reflect on that fact.

“So,” Alistair said, prodding the trader gently back to his original point, “what was this favour you asked of Duncan?”

Levi gave him a look of surprisingly guileless innocence.

“Well, the truth, ser. That… and maybe a little give-and-take.”

I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that, but he carried on before I had a chance to comment.

“See, the old Grey Warden base, Soldier’s Peak, it’s been lost for years… since my great-great-grandmother’s time. The family always thought Sophia died there, when King Arland’s men laid siege to the place, but we never had no proof. Well, it’s taken me years, but certain, er, _maps_ have come into my possession—rare as hen’s teeth, you understand, yes?—and I think I’ve plotted out a route to the Peak. I think there’s a chance to reclaim it for the Wardens. That’s what Duncan and I meant to do… what I knew I had to bring to you, when I ’eard there was Wardens what had survived Ostagar.”

The fire crackled, but the air had grown still. Everyone seemed to be watching Levi and Alistair, listening to this staggering droplet of news. I furrowed my brow.

“A… a Grey Warden base?” I asked. “I thought there was nothing in Ferelden, except the compound in Denerim.”

Alistair shook his head. “That’s what I thought. I’ve never heard of… well, we wouldn’t have, if it was ‘lost’, would we?”

He shot Levi a highly suspicious glance, and I couldn’t blame him at all for being wary. Still… a base. A vestige of the Wardens’ power from a century ago. Chances were, even if it existed and this wasn’t all some elaborate kind of trap, that the place would be nothing more than a decayed ruin. Even so, there might be something worth salvaging, mightn’t there?

I thought of the overgrown, ruined tower from which we’d been sent to retrieve the Grey Warden treaties, back in the Korcari Wilds. It felt like a lifetime ago. Was that all that remained for us to rely on? Broken bits of history, old seals and musty parchment, and abandoned forts that had long been forgotten?

Alistair narrowed his eyes. “Where exactly is this base?”

Levi grinned. “Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? It’s close by. No more than a few days’ travel. It’s deep in the hills, see; protected by ’em. The story in my family goes that there’s tunnels leading right up under the fortress. It’s taken a long while, but the maps I have show the way. So, it’s like I said toDuncan… the Wardens can reclaim their base, and us Drydens can have our history back, maybe learn the truth about old Sophia. Sounds like a fair deal, doesn’t it?”

Alistair didn’t look entirely convinced, but I could already see the sense of obligation crawling over his face.

“And Duncan promised you this, did he?” he asked doubtfully

I stifled a sigh. If Levi had made him believe Duncan had promised him a banquet of queen cakes and fairy dust, all served on a magic toadstool, Alistair would have been determined to see it through.

Still, I couldn’t deny that my curiosity had been piqued. Not to mention the fact that it could genuinely be a useful opportunity. I shot a look at Bodahn, who returned it with a cheerful smile.

“It’s quite the story, isn’t it? I know! Moved, I was, when Master Dryden first told me. I said to myself, ‘Bodahn, this is an offer you can’t afford to refuse’. Why, offering my goods and services to the Grey Wardens themselves… seems a national duty, doesn’t it?”

I squeezed a smile from unwilling lips. It seemed unlikely that was what had really seen these two merchants join forces, but I wasn’t about to argue. I could feel the weight of Alistair’s gaze on me, even as I cast a look at the rest of our companions, and found every bloody one of them studiously inspecting their feet, or their fingernails, or the damn grass.

“What do you think?” Alistair murmured, as quietly as the total lack of privacy here allowed.

I didn’t know. We still had the Dalish to find—if that was even possible, without being ripped to shreds by demon trees. Then there was the issue of the Urn; whether we should follow up the lead we’d been fed about Lake Calenhad, or just return to Redcliffe and beg for troops and a diplomatic intervention in Denerim. The possibilities—endless actions I didn’t know how to second-guess—piled up ahead of me, and I could see myself too easily paralysed by fear, too anxious to choose any single course.

I looked at him, my heart sinking at the sight of that eager, uncertain, open face, hazel eyes clouded with indecision in the firelight.

“If Duncan thought it was a good idea,” he began, faltering a little over the name, as if it still hurt to say it.

It probably did, I supposed. I sighed, and nodded.

“He has a point. If it’s still _there_ , and useable… I mean, it’s not like we’re overwhelmed with supplies or facilities. This could give us an advantage.”

Alistair looked heartened, like he’d been hoping I might say that.

“Exactly. I think we should… I mean, if _you_ think—”

I rubbed a hand over my forehead. I was so tired of decisions, and I wondered at how quickly he’d shaken that mantle of responsibility he’d begun to take on in Denerim.

“All right,” I said briskly. “Yes.”

Levi was watching us intently. He must have been able to hear, I guessed, but he pretended he hadn’t.

“We’ll help you,” I said, louder, for clarity’s sake.

“Are you mad?” Morrigan demanded. “Do we not have enough—”

“I think,” I snapped, “we can all agree that, the way things are going, we need as much weight behind us as we can get. If Soldier’s Peak can be brought back into service, it gives us somewhere to centre whatever forces we muster… some kind of focus. We need that presence if we’re to make Loghain back down. Besides, if it was something Duncan believed was right….”

I didn’t need to finish the sentence, wretched as I felt for invoking his name.

We were all tired; I saw the ripples of discomfort on their faces. In daylight, with sleep behind us, I would probably have had an argument on my hands but, right then, I had an advantage and I pressed it.

“A thousand blessings upon you, Warden!” Levi exclaimed, grinning broadly. “I’ll show you the maps. Two days, I think, at most. Why, with luck, it could be even less. Oh, this… I can’t tell you what this means….”

I smiled tightly, and suggested we all get some rest.

**_~o~O~o~_ **

And so it was decided. I wasn’t sure it was a good decision, but I was too tired and too raw to worry about it anymore.

With politely bade goodnights, eyes baggy and yawns no longer stifled, everyone splintered off to their respective tents and shelters. The moon was up, the dapplings of cloud chasing its face as night’s chariot raced across the sky… or so that story of Mother’s used to say.

I didn’t want to think about her, or the purge, or the boy we’d murdered in Genitivi’s house, or Father and Shianni and Soris and… there was too much and, no matter how tired I felt, the unfamiliarity of our company put a barrier between me and sleep.

I excused myself, muttering something about standing watch, and began to move a little way from the body of the camp, straying from the warmth of the fire. Maethor had made himself a scrape outside Bodahn and Sandal’s tent, and he looked up at me, ears cocked. I shook my head, and he laid his muzzle down on his paws, watching me. He was the reason, up until now, we hadn’t bothered much with a rota of watches. Very little got past the mabari, and we’d not run into much trouble on the road.

That, I suspected, was going to change. We were lurching towards a precipice, and it was beginning to have less and less to do with the Blight. There would be a war, unless we could stop it, and I didn’t see how that could happen. I didn’t see we had the slightest chance of standing against the Blight, either… but I couldn’t let myself give in to those thoughts. I knew that much.

I took a long breath, pulling the night air into my body as if I could shed my flesh and fly away on it, and it was cold. The smell of the trees, and the oxen tethered over by the cart, the fire, and the sparse, rough dew-laden grass caught at my nose, filling my mouth and lungs. My eyes stung, and I realised I was shaking. I blinked, hating the wetness on my cheeks.

“Meri?”

Alistair’s voice, behind me. I’d thought he’d already turned in and, because I couldn’t stand the thought of crying in front of him again, I raised my hand and, without turning, waved dismissively. The sides of the pass, cut deep into the hills and cloaked with trees, rose up around us, and I pushed further into the shadows they cast.

I heard his footsteps, as if he meant to follow, but he didn’t. There was a rustle of fabric, then Wynne’s voice, hushed and almost too soft to hear.

“Is she all right?”

My mouth crumpled as I struggled to hold in a sob, and I sat heavily on a small tussock, clinging desperately to the pretence of being on watch, and hardly daring to breathe in case my shoulders shook.

“I hope so,” I heard Alistair say doubtfully, lowering his voice. “Denerim… wasn’t good.”

They moved away, their voices too soft for me to hear. I didn’t know if he was telling her about it… about the alienage, and how what I’d done had left the way open for my whole world to burn. Probably. I was glad of that, in a way. I could be angry at him for telling, and anger was a bright thread to hold onto, somewhere in the seeping, uncontrollable mist of fear and grief.

Slowly, my breathing calmed, and the boiling sobs throttled in me gave way to sane tears. I let them come, and let myself grieve for people it was easier to assume were dead.

 _It’s a mess in there_.

Perhaps it was better if they were. Maybe better that than the horror of what had happened; the disease and hunger, the rapes and violence, and the fury of those left who would know that, in the absence of his daughter the criminal, it was Cyrion Tabris they should blame.

I sighed and wiped my face on the sleeve of Valora’s brown dress. Well, it was done now.

The wounds wouldn’t close any time soon, but my mourning had to end, or at least be put back until I had the time to grieve.

I sniffed wetly, and heard the soft tread of feet behind me, the air traced with the light delicacy of lavender and white soap. A mirthless smile bent my lips, and I knew I should have expected it.

“Feeling better?” Wynne asked gently.

I looked over my shoulder, and found her proffering a clean linen handkerchief, originally white but faded to a dull grey. I took it with a weak smile of thanks, blew my nose, and shook my head ruefully.

“Not yet. I’m trying.”

With a small grunt of effort, the mage lowered herself to the ground beside me, and folded her hands demurely into her lap. She peered out into the darkness while I wiped my eyes, and seemed to be watching the shadows shift.

“Alistair told me about what happened,” she said, after a moment. “What Loghain has done to the alienage. I wanted to say how sorry I am.”

I nodded, not entirely trusting myself to speak, and wondering just how much he _had_ said. I wasn’t angry anymore; wasn’t anything except wrung out and confused. I scrubbed Wynne’s damp hanky over my cheeks, and the night air felt chilly on my salt-hot skin.

“Truly,” she said, “it sickens and saddens me to hear what men in power inflict on those whom they ought to serve and protect.”

I cleared my throat, and looked at her in slight confusion as I refolded the soggy handkerchief. Generally, very few people thought elves merited protection.

“Did… did he tell you how Duncan conscripted me?”

I assumed he had, but Wynne shook her head, and shot me a look I didn’t fully understand, hardness lingering in those clear blue eyes.

“No,” she said consideringly. “He did not. Zevran… mentioned a few things.”

Well, that wasn’t surprising. I snorted.

“Huh. I murdered the arl of Denerim’s son.”

The words didn’t have so much weight to them now. Too much blood had flowed, washing away the awe-struck horror I’d once felt at repeating them. Besides, guilt bound me to the confession, pure and simple, although not without the bitterness of justification.

“He… he and his men,” I said softly, tasting the words, feeling the metallic darkness of them against my mouth, “between them, they killed my friend, and the man I was meant to marry, and they raped my cousin.”

I glanced at Wynne, and took no pleasure, no deep-seated gratification, in the way her face stiffened and blanched. She didn’t look shocked, I noted, and she nodded, very slowly.

“I see.”

Perhaps Zevran had already furnished them with the story; the blood-soaked bride, tearing her way through the arl’s palace with vengeance dripping from her stolen sword. Oh, yes… suitably melodramatic, I supposed. Maybe that was the way they were telling it in some corners of Denerim. Maybe the other version—where Soris and I were cast as outlaws, intent on robbery and violence, and Lord Vaughan had died a hero in defence of his father’s estate—was more popular.

If I was Loghain, I thought, I’d push that one. A city as tense as Denerim needed scapegoats, and knife-ears usually did well enough for that.

“I shouldn’t have done it.” I scuffed my boot against a tuft of grass that had done nothing to warrant such rough treatment. “That day, we should… we should just have gone with them and, I don’t know… done what they wanted. Even if— I mean, I should have _known_ what we’d bring down.”

Wynne said nothing, as was her talent. Somehow, her silence drew the words from me, and I couldn’t spool them back in.

“I should never have… I mean, all right, I didn’t know Duncan was going to conscript me. I didn’t have a choice, fair enough, but… I abandoned them. All of them, and now—”

I broke off, embarrassed and aware of the futility in my words. There was no changing anything now, no going back.

 _No turning back_.

Duncan had said that so many times, hadn’t he? I wondered if I’d really understood it back at Ostagar, before the Joining… or if I understood it even now.

Wynne sighed quietly, and stared up at the trees.

“You know,” she said, “I have heard stories that some templars who hunt maleficarum do not end the hunt with a clean death. That they subject the victim to countless… abuses and indignities before they finish it.”

I blinked. Was that supposed to be comparable, or make me feel better somehow?

She shrugged. “It is just a rumour. It is not something they speak of willingly, if at all, and especially not to mages.”

I passed her handkerchief back, a little apologetic about the dampness. She took it with those lean, strong fingers, and tucked it away into a pouch at her belt.

“I suppose,” I said warily, “that even if you know something is wrong, it’s not always possible to challenge it without causing more harm.”

“Maybe.”

Her voice was neutral, and I couldn’t tell if she agreed or not. I frowned, and reached for the slippery tail of some small truth, floundering a little as it tried to escape me.

“You just have to try and do the right thing, then. Not just what’s right for you, but… something bigger. That’s the only way you’re not blinded by yourself. Right?”

Wynne continued to stare straight ahead, but inclined her head a little.

“Mm.”

It was infuriating. I wanted her to tell me things as they were, to give me words of comfort and wisdom, if she was going to lead me towards philosophy.

“That’s what being a Grey Warden is, isn’t it?”

It seemed logical. I hoped it was; it was all I had left to throw myself into. Not to mention the issue of duty, that yawned before me—before all of us, I supposed—and threatened to swallow us whole before the Blight was ended.

Wynne glanced at me, her face a little softer than before.

“I think so. Ultimately, being a Grey Warden is about serving others, serving all people, whether elves or dwarves or men. Protecting them,” she added tentatively.

I scoffed. “I don’t have the best record there.”

“Tch, nonsense.” Her lips twitched impatiently, but warmth touched her eyes. “Think of it this way: if you live apart from others, your actions affect only you. But if you have power, influence and strength, your every action will be as a drop of water in a clear, still pond. The drop causes ripples, and ripples spread. How far they will go, and how wide will they become? How will they affect the pond?”

I frowned, utterly lost. I could think of nothing but the standpipes by the privies back home, and the pools of stagnant, fetid water that collected on the uneven ground when it rained heavily. There were always stray dogs drinking there, and children stamping in the water, pushing and shoving and laughing.

I shook my head—trying to dislodge the memories, to make everything a little bit clearer—and peered out at the treeline that fringed the pass.

“Do you think they’re out there?” I asked. “The Dalish, I mean.”

Wynne said nothing at first, but reached into one of the various pouches at her belt. She drew out something small, and held it out to me on the flat of her palm. I squinted. It looked like an arrowhead, with perhaps two inches of broken shaft still attached. The head itself was knapped flint, polished and so delicate it almost looked like glass. It had been set into the wooden shaft using some kind of hide thong, and the work was more precise than any I’d seen… although admittedly my experience was limited.

“I found this just before our little fracas earlier. It is of Dalish make, and looks fairly new, wouldn’t you say?”

I nodded, gingerly running a finger along the length of the tiny flint blade. It was wickedly keen, and she was right; it showed no sign of having been buried or decayed.

“They’re there,” Wynne said, tucking the find back into her pouch. “It will simply be a matter of finding them… and being careful over how we do it. I confess, I did not think so many of the legends about this place could be true. There are powerful, wild magics here.”

I didn’t doubt it. My brow furrowed again.

“You think we should focus on finding the Dalish, or the Urn, and not go chasing off after whatever mad tale some incredibly convenient merchant springs up with?”

Wynne smiled, and the dark ripple of a breeze whispered through the grass. My body longed for a bed, and sleep, even if my mind refused to quiet.

“I think I trust your decisions, my dear,” she said. “After all, someone has to make them.”

I stared. That was possibly the least helpful thing anyone could have said… and she bloody well knew it.

With a small shiver, Wynne hunched her shoulders and, hands pressed to her knees, began to rise.

“Ooh, it’s late. And chilly. I think I will retire… and you may want to do the same. Even Grey Wardens need their rest.”

She slipped me a wry little smile, self-aware enough of her mother hen status to make those small jokes.

“Wynne?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Hm?”

“Thank you.”

The mage smiled again—broader this time, though a trifle sad—and inclined her head. She turned and headed back to the centre of camp, and her tent.

I watched her go and, with a sigh, supposed I might as well go to bed too. Everyone else had, and it wasn’t as if there was much of the night left during which we could be surprised by anything.

Once I was under the blankets, listening to the dim chorus of other people’s snoring, farting, and rustling, the full force of tiredness hit. My eyes were too heavy to keep open, and the grainy blur of canvas soon faded to blackness as sleep stole swiftly over me, replacing the burden of responsibility with the yoke of my ever-present dreams.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Meri and company journey towards Soldier's Peak. I've taken some liberties with the in-game version of the fortress - both in location and the actual meat of the encounter, as you'll see over the next couple of chapters. Work with me here. There's a reason for it. Also: Meri wrestles with questions of morality and guilt... and something even more complicated. ;)

Alistair and Levi had been poring over the maps for ages. I gave up trying to take an interest in our projected route when it became apparent that what I thought was the symbol for a landmark peak in the Southrons was actually Highever.

I left them to it and went to help with packing the wagon. We had decided to leave in no great hurry, despite the fact that this detour was unplanned and, as I was still partially convinced, a delay we could ill afford. I’d made my decision, though, and I couldn’t back away from it now without looking like a fool or, perhaps worse, seeming weak and foolish.

In any case, the prospect of Soldier’s Peak—a whole base, and a symbol of security we might so desperately need—was enticing, added to the fact that, after the chaos of Denerim and Zevran’s injury, none of us were in much of a state to throw ourselves at the forest.

It called out to me from beyond the pass, all the same. The wind that rustled through the trees seemed to speak of Emerald Knights, and all the wondrous, beautiful things I thought the Dalish were. I wondered if we’d ever find them, or if we’d even manage to come back once the Peak had been inspected. Perhaps we’d find ourselves pushing on in the search for the Urn. The part of me that was still doused in alienage bitterness suspected that would be true; wasn’t it always elven matters that got brushed aside when some shem noble snapped his fingers?

Of course, I felt guilty for thinking of Arl Eamon like that, even briefly. And, in any case, there was no time to dwell on things.

Once we were fully loaded up, we set off, a more conspicuous baggage train than we’d been before now. Bodahn’s cart—which, I found, was positively stuffed full of goods—was a useful way of carrying our gear, and would speed us up considerably, especially as Zevran and Wynne were able to ride in amongst the bundles and crates.

She said she was fine, no matter her years, or the blows she’d taken in the Brecilian Forest, but the resentment she showed at being fussed over wasn’t strong enough to really make me believe it.

Zevran, too, was oddly quiet, not that I was surprised. Earlier that morning, I’d helped Wynne change the dressings on his arm, and my stomach had twisted at the sight of the messy, ragged joins in that smooth, tanned flesh. It had evidently been a close call, and though Wynne’s healing magic sped the recovery considerably, he’d not had sufficient aid quickly enough to properly avert the damage. I hadn’t even been there, and yet the guilt of that clung to me like wet rags. This man who’d made his oath to me—overly theatrical though that moment had been—had run close to being killed protecting people I called companions. I felt responsible.

Still, for a silver lining, I supposed what had happened meant we couldn’t doubt that oath of his anymore. Or could we?

Naturally, Zevran made light of the injury and, as I had wiped and washed and rolled bandages, and Wynne had murmured incantations, he’d kept saying how it was merely a scratch and he’d had far worse during his years in Antiva. The Crow initiation alone, he told us through gritted teeth, was painful enough to ensure only the hardiest recruits survived.

I didn’t doubt it.

Now, as the wagon’s axles rumbled and the oxen trudged onwards, Zevran sprawled among the bundles in the back like a cat. Thin, autumnal sunlight gilded his pale hair, and he had his face tipped back and his eyes partially closed. In pointed contrast, Wynne sat neatly on one of Bodahn’s tight-lashed crates, her elbows and knees tucked in and a small frown on her face as she read one of the books we’d lifted from Brother Genitivi’s house.

I’d had a look at them. Heavy stuff. I didn’t really understand what they were about… oh, the words made sense, individually, but not once they all got together in sentences and ganged up on me. The high-flown erudition of history scholars had never had much place in the alienage. I’d been lucky to know my letters as well as I did, and for Mother to take the time to teach me to appreciate the stories that she’d read.

Zevran opened one eye lazily and peered down at me.

“Why don’t you come up here, hm? There’s room, and you’ll spare your feet.”

Alistair, heading us up a few strides ahead of the oxen, glanced over his shoulder. I thought he was going to make some kind of crack about soldiers who didn’t know how to route march, but he looked rather tight-lipped.

I was walking a little behind the cart—and to the left, about level with the wheel, but away enough to avoid being splattered with too much mud—and felt surprisingly relieved to be back in my leathers. Valora’s brown dress lay neatly folded at the bottom of my pack once more, and I didn’t miss it the way I’d thought I would.

I shook my head as I looked up Zevran. “I’m fine. Feet are a lot better, actually.”

It was true. The various balms I’d used had healed up the worst of the sores and blisters, and having boots that fitted reasonably well definitely helped. Alistair had joked about how I’d eventually develop proper soldier’s feet, tough as old hide and smelly as rotten cheese, and that was a measure of the way our little band had been growing closer, I supposed.

Zevran sighed. “Ah, well. Pity. A journey is always more enjoyable with congenial company.”

He was clearly feeling better enough to flirt. That was a good sign… possibly.

I grinned. “You already have Wynne up there with you.”

The mage looked up sharply from her reading. “Don’t encourage him. If I hear one more remark about my bosom, I will not be held responsible for my actions.”

There was a strangled cough from Alistair, but Zevran just smiled.

“All I said was that it was a magnificent bosom… and it is. A bounteous feat of womanly virtue, which has held up surprisingly well in someone of your years, and—”

I snorted, despite myself, as Wynne slipped her finger between the pages of the book to mark her place, and fetched him a swift, efficient thump on the leg with it, before demurely returning to her reading.

Zevran winced, lips moulded around an ‘o’ of imperfect agony. The way his eyes watered suggested there was some bruising, or perhaps a light wound, in the area Wynne had so surgically targeted.

He blinked, and shook his head before shooting me a sly smile. “You see this, Warden? Such grace and poise! Ah, and with such a bosom!”

Wynne scowled. “I’m old enough to be your mother, maybe even your grandmother.”

I bit my lip, trying to keep a lid on the giggles bubbling up within me as Zevran shrugged.

“What? I like women with a little experience. Or a lot. A lot is good, yes?”

Wynne sighed in exasperation and dropped the book to her lap.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake. Please, just… come and sit between us. I don’t know if I trust myself enough.”

She looked pleadingly at me and, against most of my better judgement, I nodded, and clambered up onto the creaking flatbed of the cart.

It was a pleasant enough way to ride; sheer luxury, really, next to the endless walking, and the ground here was not that easy underfoot, a mix of shale and grit along with the mud. Having forsaken the road, we were clinging to the edge of the Southrons themselves, looking for the so-called pass or path that was marked on Levi’s map. He _said_ he knew how to get there, and that it would be simply a matter of finding the right way, then probably cutting through several decades of abandoned brush… unless the Peak had been overrun by bandits or squatters, of course. The thought had crossed my mind, just one of many.

I still wasn’t sure about the wisdom of thinking we could even try to reclaim a Grey Warden base within so short a distance of Denerim. If the Peak was where Levi said, it would be little more than four days from the city, and I couldn’t believe Loghain wouldn’t know of it. Alistair reasoned it was unlikely, if even the Wardens had all but forgotten about it, but I remained uneasy. What if we got there and found it was all a trap?

It didn’t bear thinking about and, I supposed, we had to take risks if we were to reap rewards. There was, in our current situation, no other alternative.

So, I sat among the packed crates and barrels, and watched Maethor snuffling his way along the front of the group, ahead of the oxen. Bodahn and Sandal sat up front, with Levi alongside, while Morrigan did her usual trick of distancing herself slightly from the group, keeping easy pace at the right of the beasts. Leliana and Sten were to the left, him with that mighty, ground-eating stride that made it look as if he was able to walk all day without tiring—which I’d long suspected he could—and her, still in her Chantry robes, seeming the vision of a misplaced missionary wandering the countryside. Alistair looked much more comfortable at being back in his armour, shield slung across his back, and I thought what a sight we would have been for anyone we might have met on the road.

“So,” Morrigan said after a while, breaking the uneasy quiet that the unfamiliarity of our new companions had left hanging in the air, “about your trip into Denerim?”

She cast an imperious glance at Alistair across the oxen’s white, swaying backs, and he groaned.

“You don’t really want to ask about that, do you?”

It was something we’d been over already before we broke camp, summarising for Bodahn and Levi and, in my case, avoiding as much detail as possible. It was too late, though; the majority of the story was already out.

“You met with that sister of yours?” Morrigan enquired delicately, her voice a thin blade of black slate, applied with the precision of a butcher’s knife.

“Half-sister, ye-es,” Alistair said, the words swathed with clear discomfort.

I wished there was some way I could distract her—he didn’t need the whole thing dredged up again—but she was like a cat with a new piece of prey to play with, and I doubted she’d give it up any time soon.

“And she did not fall upon your neck, weeping with joy to discover you?”

Overhead, the clouds were thin, grey streaks across the pale blue sky, like torn lace overlaying watered silk. The cart’s axles rumbled, and I noticed Wynne look up from her book, distaste bowing her lips.

“No,” Alistair said dispassionately, staring fixedly ahead. “No, she didn’t.”

“My, my.” Morrigan gave a small, brittle chuckle. “How surprising!”

A slight greasy taint seemed to smear the air, then Alistair sniffed philosophically.

“Yes, well, I think you’d have liked her. You’d have a lot in common.”

His words clanged across the leaden atmosphere, the insult barely concealed. Morrigan arched her thin brows, the widening of those ochre-gold eyes intensified by the swoops of shadow across her face.

“Oh?” she said icily. “Indeed. And yet you gave her money. A great deal of money, in comparison to what—”

“Yes.”

His tone was brusque; we had already imparted this news, and going over it again wasn’t going to make anyone approve of the decision any more. From the look on her face when Alistair had admitted it last night, even Wynne thought we’d been too generous… especially given the two sovereigns she’d had to pay the wise woman who set Zevran’s arm.

Morrigan’s lips tightened. “One simply wonders—”

“I expect you do,” Alistair said shortly. “But then that’s the difference between us, isn’t it?”

She stopped mid-word, her mouth still framing a protest. I had to stifle a smile, and wondered if it was very wrong for pride to well up in me the way it did.

Still, the witch wasn’t going to let him get away without a parting shot.

“Sometimes,” she snapped, “I wonder at the difference between you and a toadstool.”

Alistair continued to stare at the horizon, but with a very self-satisfied grin.

The silence seeped back in, though, and I sought to fill it, a little afraid of the way the quiet was broken by nothing but the cart’s creaking and the occasional rattle of birds in the trees.

I glanced at Zevran, somewhat unnerved to find him already looking at me, those golden-brown eyes calmly alert, his face serene.

He arched one pale brow. “Mm?”

Back ho— back in the alienage, we’d had our share of cheeky boys. When you lived that close to filth, and when so many were forced to confront the ugly sides of physicality, or seek refuge in the joyous ones, then despite all our standards, morals, and rigid constraints—or maybe even because of them—there were bound to be rebels. I remembered them as the boys with short-razored hair, defying convention with skull-close crops, delicately feathered around their ears, or spiked up at the front, spotless tunics with gaudy embroidery, and cocky walks. They’d gather outside Alarith’s in the evenings, and knock back jars of ale while they whistled at the girls, or they’d sneak out and blow a week’s wages apiece at one of the marketside taverns, and reel home singing and puking in the small hours.

They were the boys Father warned me about… but they were nothing like Zevran.

Oh, he had the looks. The hair, the clothes, the luxury—more of everything than we’d ever had where I grew up—but there was something altogether different behind it. Nothing about him screamed of hunger, for a start, or even of the kind of cruel and petty violence we saw in those who sought a life outside the alienage, and found it only in crime.

Zevran simply was as he was, and yet a fine, dark, silken presence pooled beneath that carefully constructed image. I could feel it, somehow. He was cultured, and dangerous, and I’d never encountered that combination before.

It scared me.

My gaze fell to the tattoo that hugged his cheek: those oddly curving lines that seemed just as shadowy and sinuous as he did.

“I w-was wondering something,” I said tentatively. “About what you said before.”

“Oh?” He smirked softly. “This should be good.”

“The Crows,” I persisted, unabashed, and earned myself another raised eyebrow from him. “The initiation you spoke of. Do they really…?”

Zevran’s lips twitched almost imperceptibly. In context, it might have been the equivalent of a hearty laugh; I wasn’t sure.

“Ah, yes. It’s all true. The beatings, the endurance of terrible pain. How else would they foster the proper… competitive attitude in young apprentices?”

I wanted to believe he was joking, but I doubted it. I wrinkled my nose.

“Rewarding the survivors,” I observed darkly. “Hm.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad.” He shifted his position against the crates as the wagon pitched a little over the rutted ground. “If you do poorly in your training, you die. Simple. And it’s no great loss to the Crows. They buy all their assassins on the slave market: young, and cheap, and they raise them to know nothing but murder.”

He kept fixed, even eye contact with me as he spoke, as nonchalantly as if we were discussing nothing more than the weather. I regretted having tried to ask in the first place. He was testing me, waiting for a rise of shocked reaction, but I didn’t yield that easily.

“That system really works, does it?”

Wynne had looked up from the book again, those sharp blue eyes darting between us, her lips tight and the hint of disapproval lingering in her face. I knew the Circle kept its mages sheltered from the world, but I suspected Wynne had experienced much more of life than she let on, and I doubted she could really be so naïve.

Zevran gave a lackadaisical shrug and tilted his head to the side, regarding me coolly as a small smile touched the corner of his lips.

“Should it not? You compete against your fellow assassins. Fail, and die. Survive, and you may be rightly proud of it. Besides, in Antiva, being a Crow gets you respect.”

He’d kept himself so calm, so nonchalant, yet his eyes hardened just a little on that last word, the thick burrs and lilts of his accent spitting it from his mouth like a crisp, dangerous thing.

“I’m sure it does,” I said carefully.

Wynne looked silently appalled. I wasn’t sure if any of the others were listening in. They could probably hear us, although Sandal had started to hum quietly, swinging his feet as he sat on the top of the driver’s box.

Ahead of us, a rabbit dashed from the brush. Maethor bounded after it, but it was too quick, and he lost it under a thorn bush.

“Oh, shame!” Alistair exclaimed. “That could have been dinner.”

Morrigan made a tart comment about charred meat and limited culinary repertoires, but I was watching Zevran as he nodded slowly.

“It does,” he said, his words soft and slightly sinister. “It gets you wealth. It gets you women, men… whatever you might fancy. But it means doing what is expected of you, always. And it means being expendable.”

That light, tawny gaze held mine, and I found myself wondering how much he knew about the people he’d been contracted to kill. Did he know about the oaths Grey Wardens swore? Or did Loghain, for that matter?

Did he know about what we did—what we took into ourselves, a sacrifice to corruption—and how we were given to the Blight, tied to the darkspawn, in order to be their destruction?

I shivered a little, though the breeze was not that cold. In some ways, we were more alike than I felt comfortable admitting.

Zevran shrugged again, indolent and easy, and gave me a rueful smile.

“It is a cage, if a gilded one. Pretty, but confining. As for what it takes to get there… eh, quite frankly, the truth is that all being an assassin requires is a desire to kill people for a living. It’s surprising how well you can do in such a field, especially within an organisation such as the Crows.”

He made it sound simple, matter-of-fact… and I very nearly nodded in agreement. Wynne gave a small scoff of disgust as she lowered her book and glared at him.

“You sound as if you actually _enjoyed_ it!”

“And why not?” He turned those heavy-lidded eyes to her, and raised his brows. “There were many things to enjoy about being a Crow in Antiva, my dear Wynne. Respect, fear… a certain degree of exemption from the law. There were many—how would you say?—little perks. As for the killing part, well… some people simply need assassinating. Or do you disagree?”

The mage blustered, a dozen different reproaches apparently struggling to escape her thin lips. I couldn’t tell if Zev was winding her up or not, yet when he glanced back at me—encouragement to come and help him play at baiting his prey—I saw something deathly serious in his face. My mind passed back through the months as if they were water, and I remembered the taste of blood in my mouth, and the feel of sweat burning in my eyes as I stood over Vaughan Kendalls’ corpse.

A part of me was convinced Zevran had seen it; that somehow he could look into my eyes and read the memories, know all the secrets. I hated the thought… almost as much as I hated the memories.

“The thing is,” he said easily, as if merely confiding a preference for a certain type of cheese, “I often find myself the instrument of fate, ending a life for one necessity or another. I console myself with the notion that most of them had it coming. As far as enjoying the act of killing itself, why not? There is a certain artistry to the deed, the pleasure of sinking your blade into their flesh and knowing that their life is in your hands.”

His gaze bored into me and, though Wynne had finally found her voice and was—rather shrilly, it had to be admitted—demanding to know if he actually understood that murder was wrong, I barely heard her.

There was a blood-slicked floor beneath my feet, and I felt the hilt of a borrowed sword in my hand, the resistance of flesh yielding to the path of vengeance I twisted through it.

I remembered pale green eyes turned to weeping, bloodshot slits as the face of a monster became the face of a puling, crying child. I’d made that bastard scream, and my only regret before we left the arl’s estate had been not having the time or skill to take his balls, and being forced to let him die a complete man, whimpering and squealing in the mess of his own blood and piss.

Zevran looked steadily at me, and I knew he saw it. He saw every dirty, stained, crumpled piece of my soul.

“Naturally,” he said brightly, with a quick glance at Wynne, “there were many things about being a Crow that were not enjoyable. But… honestly? I can’t say it was entirely unpleasant.”

“That is appalling,” Wynne grumbled. “You don’t even seem to have a _grain_ of remorse!”

The corner of Zevran’s lips curled again; that little whisper of a smile that was all at once lazily sensual and oddly cynical. It made me feel unpleasantly exposed, and I wished I’d stuck with walking behind the cart.

He winked at me then. Maker’s truth: an actual conspiratorial wink.

“You know,” he said, turning to Wynne, “you are right. Now that I think about it, you are right about everything. I am a terrible person. Please… I wish to cry. May I rest my head on your bosom?”

I clapped a hand over my mouth to try and stop the snort of laughter, but it was useless, no matter how heartfelt Wynne’s growl of frustration was. She brought the book down again sharply on his leg, but I suspected—in the greater scheme of things—Zevran didn’t mind enduring a little pain for a moment as well worth it as that.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

It was almost sundown when we broke for camp. There had been a little consternation to do with maps and the geography of the hills; we were pushing deeper into the Southrons now, and whether Levi was right about the fortress being hidden within them or not, there was an increasing danger of getting horribly lost and spending the rest of the Blight looking for a way out.

The trader assured us—in his customary nervous, faintly oily way—that the maps were correct, and we’d hit Soldier’s Peak the next morning, if we were lucky. Sten did that soft growl in the back of his throat thing, and managed to intimate very successfully by so doing that, if we were _not_ lucky, someone was going to get their arms ripped off.

Still, all things considered, I had to admit that there had been many worse nights. The tang of frost was on the air, but our fire burned big and bright, and Bodahn had a plentiful array of supplies. He even took the opportunity to try and sell us some of his manifold wares—and the dwarf seemed to have absolutely everything, from cheap jewellery to well-made shoes and second-hand weapons. I didn’t want to think about what had happened to the people who’d owned them firsthand.

Morrigan, of course, felt compelled to point out how broke we were, on account of certain people ‘frittering’ our money away, but all in all the evening was pleasant. It was rather nice to have the security of the hills ranging up around us, like the solid embrace of some protective fortification.

I thought so, anyway, until Leliana drifted into one of her stories, and began recounting the tale of the Rebel Queen’s campaign against the Orlesians, and how Maric the Saviour and the rebel army had come out of the bones of the land to overthrow the usurper-tyrant, Meghren.

It surprised me a little that she should take such pleasure in that story, but I supposed a bard knew when a tale’s core merits outweighed its social and political sensitivities. Everyone sat, enraptured, as Leliana wove the tale, and I wondered if any of them even remembered that several of the key players—not least bloody Loghain Mac Tir—were the reason we were in our current mess.

One look at Sandal’s face, though, mouth hanging open and pale eyes big as saucers as he leaned forwards, legs crossed and hands clenched in the dirt, told me no one needed to hear my complaints. I slipped quietly away from the fire… just as Alistair had done, rather than listen to the saga of his father’s heroics.

I had some thought about going to my tent, maybe cleaning my weapons or buffing my boots a bit, when I saw Alistair’s familiar shape—smaller, without the armour, stripped down to that over-mended, comfortable shirt—outlined on the other side of the canvas peaks. He seemed to be looking away into the blank eyes of the hills, as if he could sense something in their blind nooks and crannies. I really, really hoped it wasn’t darkspawn… but then I’d have felt too, wouldn’t I?

I supposed so, though it was hard to know _what_ I felt a lot of the time. He turned and smiled at me, and I couldn’t help noticing the way his thumb was working at the worry token on his left forefinger.

“All right?” he asked.

“Mm-hm.” I nodded, and it was only partially a lie. I glanced back past the bulk of the wagon, towards the fire. “Didn’t need to hear that one, then?”

Alistair grimaced. “Not really. You?”

“No. It’s a good story, but… no.”

The dusk skimmed shadows across everything, the last light of the day glancing oddly off the small white stones in the dirt. The closer we got to scrambling in amongst the peaks themselves, the more the earth seemed sown with hardness, as if Leliana’s tales were true, and the Southrons were bursting up out of the land like teeth, as proud and fierce as the rebels who’d once owned them.

I frowned. “If the rebel army was here during the uprising, wouldn’t they—?”

“I thought that.” Alistair nodded sagely. “I suppose, either Levi’s right and the Peak is so well hidden they never found it, or they _did_ , and it was useless.”

Just a ruin… a hollowed out husk of a thing. Yes, that would about suit our luck, wouldn’t it?

I winced. “Seems logical. I just don’t know if any of this is… well, you know.”

“I know.” He began to cross the few feet of dirt that separated us, his face strangely hopeful in the gloom. “It’s the right thing, though. I’m sure of that. If Duncan believed it… a-and more than that, if we can do this for the Grey Wardens, then….”

The words trailed off, and I felt the strength of the belief behind them. Alistair rubbed at his worry token again—full-scale, with the fingers of the other hand this time, not just his left thumb. Something serious was bothering him, I decided. I wished I had his faith in the order; that I’d had the chance to see something perfect and beautiful and heroic in it before I joined.

“I just hope whatever we find will be helpful,” I said, gazing down at those strong, square hands of his, and the winking disc of gold. “Maybe we’re about due some good luck.”

Alistair snorted softly. “Yeah… maybe.”

I glanced towards my tent. “Um. I-I should, uh—”

“Wait.”

The word was a quick gulp, and it pinned me to the spot, though I didn’t quite understand why, or how.

“Yes?”

“Er… I… I just wanted to say something.” Alistair cleared his throat awkwardly. “I mean… um.”

“Something wrong?” I prompted.

“What? No… no, it’s not that.” He looked over my shoulder, down towards the fire, as if satisfying himself that we weren’t going to be overheard. “No, it’s just that I really appreciate what you did, that’s all. In Denerim.”

I blinked, not wanting the reminders and already beginning to turn away, but he stepped closer and, for a moment, I thought he’d reach out and take my arm to stop me. I looked up, and found him a little closer than I’d expected.

He smelled… well, human, that clean scent of apples and green wood that was somehow _him_ overlaid with the sweat and grime of travel. I smelled nerves on him, too, and I didn’t know why.

“Oh. I—”

“You didn’t have to do it,” Alistair went on stubbornly, refusing to let me brush him off. “But you took me to find my sister, and… and you were there to talk me down after we left. I appreciate that.”

My lips moved soundlessly. I wanted to say that it was nothing, but that wouldn’t really have been true. Meeting Goldanna, however badly it had turned out, had meant a great deal to him, and we both knew how much.

Alistair frowned and stared at the dirt, a mix of regret and embarrassment colouring his face.

I managed a weak smile. “Really, it was—”

“No, you’re… you’re a true friend,” he said quietly, raising his gaze to mine. “I just wanted to tell you that.”

I said nothing for a moment, my mouth dry and my lips parched. The cold night air nipped at my cheeks, and I realised how hot they felt in comparison.

“Well,” I murmured, despite the way my voice seemed to want to stick in my throat, “we’re in this together, aren’t we?”

Alistair smiled, and the warmth of it flooded his eyes. The dusk-bathed dimness made him look younger… boyish, almost. I didn’t want to remember as vividly as I did how—by the impenetrable alienage walls, raw with all we’d learned there—I had wept on his chest, and how I’d wanted him to hold me, even as his hands rested tentatively on my shoulders, trying to convey comfort without touch. That respectful distance he had always left between us—never pressing an advantage, never assuming a permission—filled me with gratitude, and yet I wanted to rip it all away.

I swallowed heavily, unaccustomed to feeling like this. Ashamed and a little angry at myself, I wanted to get away, yet my feet were leaden.

“That we are,” Alistair agreed. “And… you know I have your back, right?”

I nodded, and the smile I gave him in return was wide—wider than my usual fare, because I forgot all about the chips and the missing tooth, until the cool air touched the bare socket of my gum. The grin wiped from my face, I looked down at the earth, the blue-tinged light making those little white pebbles seem opalescent amid the dark soil and tufts of black grass.

“’ppreciate it,” I murmured.

“Mm. Bet you’ll miss it when it’s all over, though, won’t you?”

I looked up, an incredulous frown already creasing my brow. That light, sarcastic tone leavened his words, like he wanted to detach himself from all the seriousness. His thumb was working at the worry token again, threatening to polish away the runes.

“ _You_ know… the endless route marches, the brushes with death, the constant battles with the whole Blight looming over us… all that?”

It seemed a rather optimistic thing to say, given the current state of our rag-tag war effort. We had no idea just what, in real and practical terms, ending the Blight would actually involve, never mind being bold enough to assume we’d all be alive to see it.

That thought slipped quickly through my head, like a fish slicing beneath dark water, and it left ripples of fear behind it. Just thinking about it—about any of us falling in battle—chilled my flesh, but I couldn’t escape the sudden images that speared my mind.

Blood on blond hair, hazel eyes staring blankly into oblivion…. My throat clenched convulsively, and I fixed my gaze on Alistair, as if I needed to prove to myself that he was still there. He raised his eyebrows, and I forced out a small, dry laugh.

“Huh… why, will you?”

He gave me an odd sort of half-smile, his face a little distant, as if he was trying to remember the punchline of a particularly good joke. Then he blinked, and puffed out his lips.

“Pfft, definitely! I tear up just thinking about it. I mean, there’ll be no more running for our lives. No more darkspawn and—” He paused to groan theatrically. “—oh! No more camping in the middle of nowhere!”

I chuckled, and he scuffed at the grass with the side of his boot, his smile gradually fading.

“I suppose what I mean to say is, um… well, I know it… might sound strange—”

He broke off, raising his head abruptly at the same moment I turned, my hand automatically flying to the hilt of my dagger. Movement to the left of us made me flinch, my heart thudding dully against my ribs in that stupid, breathless moment.

It was only Sandal.

The boy stood near the back of the wagon, his mouth slightly open and eyes wide. He looked at us solemnly, and then glanced towards the rise of the hills.

“The big castle’s scary,” he confided, in those ethereal child-like tones.

“What big castle?” Alistair asked, his brow furrowed.

He was too brisk with the lad, and Sandal shook his head; either a refusal to impart a secret, or an admission that he lacked the words. I couldn’t be sure.

“Where is the castle, Sandal?” I asked, taking a soft step towards him. “Do you mean Soldier’s Peak?”

He raised a hand and pointed at the hills. Northeast, I noticed, like Levi’s interpretation of the maps said.

“Over there.” Sandal’s pale, pudgy face creased into a frown. “I don’t like it.”

I wanted to ask what he meant—whether it was the Peak he spoke of, and how he knew he didn’t like it—but Bodahn’s voice cut across the night, calling his son.

“Ah, there you are,” the dwarf said, relieved, as he emerged from behind the wagon.

Sandal looked at his father blankly. I supposed there must be an acknowledgement of recognition there, but I couldn’t see it.

“Come along now, my boy,” Bodahn said smoothly, putting an arm around his shoulders. “You leave the Grey Wardens to their business. Mighty important task it is they’ve got, and we’ve the cart to see to. I hope he’s been no trouble,” he added, glancing at us.

“Of course not,” I said, dredging up a smile. “In fact—”

“Well, good night to you, then.” Bodahn squeezed the boy’s shoulders, and began to lead him away.

Alistair and I echoed our goodnights. I wondered if the merchant had overheard us, and if there was some reason he felt that Sandal should not be questioned.

As they retreated out of earshot, Alistair shot me a wary look.

“What was that about?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know, but somehow it doesn’t fill me with confidence.”

“I know exactly what you mean. Well… I, er, suppose… um. Better get some rest.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of his tent, his arm swinging loosely, and cleared his throat. “Sleep, and all that. ’Night, then.”

“Goodnight,” I said, slightly puzzled as I watched him take his leave.

He never had told me what he was going to say.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soldier's Peak begins to yield its secrets... but they are not what Merien expected to find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just saying: I've taken massive geographical liberties with the Soldier's Peak chapters, according to the in-game map. Sorry if this confuses/niggles/annoys. For the purposes of the FoD universe, I'm seeing it as located/hidden within the Southrons, potentially less than a week's march from Denerim. Also, numerous other tweaks and twiddles have happened. *prepares for beating* Please... not the face.

We spent the next morning scrambling, as predicted, through gravel-strewn pathways overgrown with brambles, buckthorns and straggly, thin gorse bushes that scratched and snared any unwary foot or leg.

There was a cut through the hills, a pathway after whose midpoint the wagon would no longer pass. We made a camp in the bare hollow of the hillsides, and left Bodahn and Sandal there. Morrigan had been keeping up a litany of complaint about the whole endeavour but—when I suggested that, if she didn’t like it, she and anyone else who wanted could stay back with them—she just shook her head grimly and muttered about us needing all the help we could get.

I should have known that she sensed something powerful hidden among the bones of the land.

Soldier’s Peak had been built, apparently, after the Second Blight, around the middle of the Glory Age. Between them, Leliana and Levi had two equally flowery versions of the story, and by mid-morning I’d heard enough of it to last me several months.

The Grey Wardens had been heroes in the minds of the people, the defeat of the Archdemon Zazikel still a clarion in Ferelden’s fresh history, a raw memory at whose wounds no one begrudged throwing gold or tithes. The Warden-Commander of the day, Gaspar Asturian, had used that wealth to build a fortress that would be more than a centre of command; a place for Wardens to live, train, recruit… and watch.

So it had been, until the tyrant, King Arland, turned on the Grey Wardens and laid siege to the Peak and, when he banished the order from Ferelden, Asturian’s legacy—and his beautiful dream—lay as ashes amongst all the things we had forgotten.

I still reckoned that, if we found the place at all, it would be crawling with bandits, or possibly Loghain’s soldiers.

It was heading onto midday when we stumbled onto the first block of masonry. Zevran found it. He still had his arm in the sling—not, he said, that it mattered. He’d assured me he was still perfectly capable of providing us with assistance… or picking up any pretty little trinkets that might have been left lying around after all these centuries. I’d scoffed, but admitted he had a point. We needed money if we were to keep clothes on our backs and food in our bellies, let alone contemplate the prospect of raising an army against Loghain, and we couldn’t afford to be too picky about where the gold came from.

“A-ha!” he exclaimed, kicking what looked to me like yet another bloody gorse bush.

Now he was back in his light, ornate, leg-baring armour, I could see the bloody bandage that wrapped his left thigh. The thin, autumnal sunlight that lanced down the hard, dank hillsides picked at the curlicues on his chestpiece, and made the gold braids in his hair dance. Not for the first time, I thought that it was less like having a Crow hopping after us than a peacock.

“What?” Alistair asked wearily, squinting up at the ridge before us.

It looked like there must once have been a path here, cut through the rock. A roadway of sorts, perhaps, though long since lost to the barren, hilly ground.

“Look. Under here.” Zevran crouched and, with his good hand, began to tug back the gorse. He cursed under his breath in Antivan but, after a few moments’ work, revealed part of a carved pedestal. He rose to his feet, stood back, and pointed. “There. You see? I think a statue guarded this way once. We are on the right track, no?”

Wynne peered over his shoulder.

“That does look like an inscription,” she admitted, bending for a closer look, her lips moving as she tried to decipher the worn lettering. “…villi—? No. ‘In vigilance’… something… I can’t see what—”

I shot Alistair a wary look, and watched the muscles clench in his jaw.

“Sounds about right,” he said.

“Then we go on.” I nodded to the ridge. “Levi?”

The trader scurried forwards, leather bags and map-rolls hanging off him like a pack mule. He had one of the parchments in his hands, and kept holding it up to the light, as if he could match the squiggles and symbols to the peaks around us.

“Oh, yes. Definitely this way,” he said, striding on ahead, full of self-assurance and a kind of puppyish enthusiasm.

From the back of the group, Morrigan gave a loud and weary sigh.

We headed on and, as Sten passed me, his heavy, chain-laced boots clinked slightly on the packed earth. He grumbled something in his own tongue that, though I didn’t have the first understanding of qunari language, I could guess was probably obscene.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

Whatever else we might discover about Soldier’s Peak, I was starting to doubt it would be overrun by anyone. It was just too far out of the way, and too damned difficult to get to. It could only have been worse, I decided, if we’d had to slog through miles of underground tunnels to reach its supposed location… although Levi did _say_ there had been rumours of such a maze. Mines, apparently, which the Wardens had laid claim to, and which had once provided a healthy income for the fortress.

“Oh, everything I’ve read says they collapsed years ago, mind,” the trader said, still horribly cheerful as we climbed up yet another ridge.

There was definitely something here. We’d seen more traces of old statuary, more hints of old paths worn away by the years. Once, the Grey Wardens’ presence must have been all over these hills.

“Just as well, I suppose,” Alistair said dryly, pausing to wipe the sweat from his brow with the back of one gloved hand. “We know what tends to come out of tunnels, don’t we?”

Levi looked confused. I grimaced.

“Darkspawn,” I explained, at which he visibly paled. “They break up from under the ground, swarm all over the place.”

The trader made a holy sign with the fingers of his left hand. “Maker’s breath!”

“Don’t worry,” I said, sounding a great deal more confident than I felt. “I don’t sense anything. Alistair?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. Not here, at least.”

As if to mark the words, a murky cloud passed over the weak sun, momentarily dimming the light. Alistair’s wry smile didn’t seem to do much to appease Levi’s concern, and the trader widened his eyes.

“G-Grey Wardens can… _sense_ the ’spawn?”

“But apparently very little else,” Morrigan said darkly, her black iron staff striking the ground with small, dry pits as she stalked up to where we stood, glaring at the ridge beyond as if it might dare to defy her. “You do not feel it?”

“Oh, there she goes,” Alistair said, addressing the world at large as he rolled his eyes skywards. “Drama, gloom, and depression. And I was having such a _nice_ day.”

“Hmph.” Morrigan hunched her shoulders, looking for all the world like an ill-tempered raven. “They _do_ say ignorance is bliss, don’t they?”

I sighed. It was like trying to make two small children behave properly at a wedding.

“What did you mean, Morrigan? Feel what?”

The witch glared at me as if I was an idiot, but it was Wynne who spoke up.

“She’s right. Things feel… strange. I fear whatever happened in this place may have weakened the Veil. We should be careful.”

Levi blinked, evidently confused again. “The… the Veil? W-what…?”

“Demons,” Alistair said wearily, surveying the hillside spread out behind us. “Maybe walking dead if we’re _really_ lucky. D’you think there’ll be walking dead? Or d’you think they’d be too, I don’t know, bony? It’s been a long time since the Peak was inhabited. Maybe walking skeletons. Or—”

“Alistair,” Wynne warned, as Levi looked fit to soil his smallclothes.

“I was just wondering,” he protested, as we set off again. “Would skeletons walk? Or would they shamble? Sort of like… _urrrrggghhhh_ …. Only they wouldn’t have any fleshy bits left to make noises with, so probably—”

“Alistair!”

“Sorry.”

We hiked on in silence for a while, that sense of unease brewing. I remembered all too well the perils of the Circle Tower, and the horrors we’d seen at Redcliffe, and began to think I’d probably have preferred a confrontation with bandits or the Teyrn’s men.

Our first sight of the Peak came as we crested the next ridge. The hills cut away sharply, into what must once have been an impressive approach, though it was now choked with fallen stones, the detritus of landslips and the ravages of time. An incline led up towards the ruin of a gatehouse, and a great portcullis long decayed. Beyond that, the shapes of towers could be made out, like blunted nails scraping across the sky.

It was impressive, yes, and far more than I’d thought we’d find—the place looked huge, more like a walled town than just a simple keep—but there was something painfully sad about the state of it, those fallen stones and long-crumbled walls; a forgotten tomb, choked with thorns.

“Well! There she is, after all.” Levi let out a low whistle between his teeth. “Maker’s breath… what a fortress!”

Beside me, Sten shifted uneasily, a growl escaping his throat.

“We shall see. There are too many hills. It is not an ideally defensible position, and is gone to such ruin it may collapse at any moment.”

“True,” Alistair chipped in with cheerful sarcasm. “But, apart from that, doesn’t it look nice and homey?”

Leliana’s mouth tightened as she looked up at the ruins, and I could have sworn I saw tears well briefly in her eyes.

“It just seems so sad,” she said quietly. “And to think of all those people who died here….”

“Huh.” Morrigan snorted and pulled her cloak tightly around herself, the feathers rustling crisply at her shoulders. “I say again: you are all fools. Let the dead lie undisturbed.”

Alistair grinned. “Oooh… anyone would think you were scared!”

She glared at him and pulled back her lip, baring those small, white teeth, but the damage was already done. I’d never known Morrigan to seem this apprehensive before, and a glance at Wynne confirmed that the older mage felt it too; whatever was hiding there, it was going to be more than bandits.

Even Maethor was hanging back, sitting at my heels, ears cocked as he let out small puffs of breath, each one marked with an almost inaudible whine.

I sighed. Well, no turning back now and, anyway, it wasn’t as if anything was ever _easy_ , was it?

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

It was quiet as we descended the ridge, scrambled up the incline, and entered the gates of Soldier’s Peak. Far too quiet. The whole place seemed dead, desiccated… there were no birds, no vermin, and not even any audible insects making their homes in the buckthorns and brambles that cloaked the stones. Even the vegetation itself seemed strangely dry and static, as brittle as kindling.

The air felt cold, too: more so than just the chill of the coming winter on the breeze. I half-expected ice to crunch beneath my boots, but my steps met only worn and mossy flagstones, their surfaces chased with the creeping tendrils of some tiny-leaved green plant that gave off a strong, musty smell when crushed underfoot.

“Corpseweed,” Morrigan observed, looking down at where I was standing.

I wrinkled my nose. “What?”

“It grows in the Wilds, too. Where dead things decay, and bones lay unburied.”

“Ugh.” I stepped aside hurriedly, and a shiver ran down my spine like cold rain.

With the gates and the broken teeth of the portcullis at our backs, flanked by twin gatehouses set into the main wall, we found ourselves in a wide space… the foregate that came before the keep, I supposed. It curved slightly, bending around the ruined stump of a tower and a clutch of smaller buildings that must once have been thriving, busy places; stables, quartermaster’s stores, perhaps even an armoury or something.

“Looks like a forge in there,” Levi said, straying away from our little knot, and peering into one of the wrecked husks. “Cor… the things my cousin Mikhael could do with a beast like that! He’s quite the craftsman, you know.”

I held out a warning hand. “Don’t go far. I think we should be careful to stay together.”

Levi blinked nervously and, nodding, began to skitter back towards us. As he did so, his foot caught in one of the thorn bushes, and he almost stumbled. A metallic noise sounded against the stones, and he stared down at the ground in front of him.

“Oh… oh, Maker….”

Scudding ahead of his foot, and coming to rest against a rope of twisted roots and corpseweed, was a tarnished helmet, with the Grey Wardens’ griffon emblazoned on it. From beneath the rusted-open visor, a skull—weathered and pitted to a dull, brownish-yellow, its lower jaw long since gone, along with most of its teeth—stared up at us. I thought Levi was going to be sick.

“Well,” Alistair said thoughtfully, gazing down at the remains, “at least it doesn’t seem to be moving of its accord.”

Levi whimpered, and hopped into line, tucked between Zevran and Sten.

I frowned at the skull, and delicately picked my way across the plantlife. Sure enough, the rest of a body could be made out under the shroud of buckthorn and decay; little more than hints of century-old armour, and the possibility of a blade resting at the warrior’s side, but they were there.

“Hmm. This is odd, no?”

I looked up, and found Zevran peering in consideration at the remains of the Grey Warden. I raised my brows.

“Well, clearly no one bothered to loot the dead,” he said coolly. “These weapons, the armour… think how much all of this would be worth, yes? And, though some of the buildings seem to have been burned, this is no deliberate, wholesale destruction.”

The thought of stripping the bodies, practical though it was—and despite everything I’d had to do already in my short time on the road—revolted me, and I grimaced. Perhaps it was seeing the Wardens’ crest on that helmet that did it, but it just seemed dirtier somehow, and I didn’t want to give the prospect a moment’s credence.

“You’d have done it differently, then?” I snapped.

That golden-brown gaze passed lightly over me, and I felt foolish. Zev just shrugged.

“I am simply saying I find it… peculiar.”

He had a point, loath as I was to admit it: there was something odd about how intact the remains were. Clearly, no predators had been in this place to pull the corpses apart and carry them off, and if both attackers and defenders had fallen so suddenly that the battlefield had never been cleared… well, it must have been a real massacre.

“I think we should keep moving,” Alistair said, peering across the foregate. “Looks like the keep is this way. Those two long bits, over there—just under where those crenellations are—that’s probably the barracks. There’ll be a chapel, a mess hall, latrines and bathhouse… training arena and range, and… what?”

He looked mildly embarrassed as he realised the others were staring, and lowered the hand with which he was gesticulating across the vista.

“It’s a lot like the templar compound, all right? And the base in Denerim, although this is on a much bigger scale…. It’s like Asturian wanted to build a whole city or something.”

There was a note of awe in his voice, I realised, and a touch of melancholy. Of course, I’d never known the other Grey Wardens, never had the experiences he had, or seen the places we were supposed to call home. I had no idea what our fortresses were meant to be like, or how it felt to belong in one.

Still, we had no time to waste lapsing into grief.

As I turned to head towards the great, jagged shape of the keep, Maethor hung back, his muzzle low to the ground and his hackles up. He growled—a short, sharp, fierce warning—and his gaze seemed to be fixed on the gap between the two long buildings Alistair had pointed out.

“Wh—?”

I saw nothing there, but the enquiry died on my lips as I noticed the look on Morrigan’s face. Her eyes were wide, unblinking… hard as sovereigns, and her skin seemed even paler than usual. She, too, stared at the barracks, and I saw her chest rise and fall with short, shallow breaths.

“Over there,” Wynne said softly. “Many. They hunger, but it is blind hunger… madness. We must—”

“Too late,” Morrigan murmured. “They feel us.”

Levi let out a whimper, and I saw the weeds and buckthorns move.

“Oh, look,” Alistair said dryly, drawing his sword. “Isn’t that interesting? They don’t shamble, after all.”

He was right. Walking dead… different to the things we’d seen at Redcliffe, but no less grotesque. They poured out of the ruins like rats, seeming to come from every possible cranny and gap, and they were horrific. Those ancient, discoloured bones moved in parodies of life, jerking and lurching, some with desiccated scraps of flesh clinging to them, others with the remnants of armour trailing from their ravaged bodies.

They had been Wardens, once. Wardens, and king’s men alike, prey for the demonkin, and now their prisons.

Morrigan raised her staff as we tightened our ranks, and I pulled a gibbering Levi to my side and shoved him behind me.

“If you were _going_ to start being right about things, Alistair,” the witch grumbled, “you could have picked one of many more pleasant topics.”

He grinned mirthlessly as the creatures advanced, those ghastly, loping paces covering the ground far more quickly than they looked capable of doing.

“You did say I was right, though. Just then. We all heard you.”

“Huh.” Morrigan curled her lip. “Let us hope you live to enjoy it.”

The feathers twirled on the neck of her staff as she lifted it, and a burst of ice tore through the air. It struck the first of the things, riming it with frost, and billowed out before the next two. The spell seemed to slow them, and I wondered how dead flesh—or, in this case, bones—which could neither see nor feel, could be weakened.

Behind me, Zevran swore fluidly in Antivan.

“More,” he barked. “Coming from behind the keep. They’re everywhere.”

The breath sat high and fast in the top of my chest, pulse skittering and dread chasing a cold line down my back.

“We hold,” Alistair said firmly. “Better to let them get closer than break ranks too early. We’ll be swamped in no time.”

Morrigan shot another bolt of ice at the creatures that were now two-thirds of the way across the foregate. One jolted at the knees, like its foot was stuck behind it and, for a moment, I thought it would fall. It just kept jerking itself forwards, uneven yet unstoppable, and I heard Levi whimper.

It would have been easier if they’d been louder. If there could have been the snarling and the cries of battle, the viciousness and the growls of challenge… anything more than that thick, terrible quiet, broken only by the clinks of worn and tarnished metal. I hated the silence. The whole place seemed dead with it, and these… things… unnerved me to the point I could even begin to miss fighting darkspawn.

“Divide and conquer, then?” Alistair asked.

Sten nodded, the tip of his greatsword out before him, balanced on the stones. It seemed almost like peaceful repose, yet I knew his guard positions, and I could see the tension bunching in his arms and shoulders. In the blink of a fractured moment, he would lunge, and swing, and heads would roll.

We held the line until the last possible breath, and then carnage broke loose.

Sten took the first rush, hiking forwards with a great bellow and scything through the shrivelled, mail-draped bodies. Four of them swarmed him like flies, nothing to them but the desire to claw, rend, and kill. Only completely breaking the bones apart stopped them… hacking them to pieces so that, hostless and disorientated, the demons left their dry, rotten shells, and the last link between flesh and Fade could be cut.

It was dirty, long work. Morrigan held one side of the line, dealing out ice and that dark, sucking kind of magic that I would learn later was called entropy. I covered Sten, catching anything that either escaped his reach or splintered away from the fight. My sword gripped tight in sweating hands, I hacked and cut and smashed until every muscle screamed for mercy. Sightless faces and reeking, stale, filthy bones ripped at me—such hatred, their malice ground to a keen edge over the years, even the demons’ desire to taste the mortal realm shrivelled away in the madness of dead prisons.

Behind me, Wynne held back the advancing wave with a wall of fire—I felt the heat of it, a swelling, oppressive pressure across my shoulders—while Leliana and Zevran slipped and twirled between the bodies, striking with deft efficiency, and Maethor proved a formidable guard for Levi. Alistair’s sword always seemed to be where it was needed, and if those long-possessed bones flung themselves at us with blind hatred, knowing nothing but the jealous urge to blot out the life they so hungered for, then there was nothing to him but ruthless, efficient violence, and the determination to stand between us and the corrupted spirits.

It was only as they were struck down that they broke that eerie silence. As decrepit heads were severed from crumbling spines, there were roars and shrieks and unearthly howls that seemed to twist the very air.

At last, it came to an end. We were still standing, and there were no more bones walking.

I stood over a pile of rusted scraps of armour and dry, discoloured remains, little more than bare bones draped in the remnants of mail, or rattling in filthy, tarnished plate. There’d been, what, twenty or thirty? I felt as if I should be covered with blood but, save for a few scrapes and cuts where a dirty blade or shrivelled hand had caught, all that marked me was sweat, grime, and the smell of ancient death.

A glance at my companions confirmed everyone was all right. Tired, sore, maybe a little shaken… but all right, with the possible exception of Levi. Maethor, having dutifully protected the trader, was sniffing the now-lifeless bones with trepidation, and an expression that suggested he was debating whether giving them a damn good chew was sufficient retribution, or whether he had at last encountered something he _didn’t_ want to eat.

Levi, meanwhile, scrambled across to the husk of the old forge, and started throwing up.

I looked at Zevran, his arm still bound in the sling, and raised my brows. He caught my eye and shrugged, tossing me a cavalier smile.

“I believe I told you, yes? This, it is nothing. As a matter of fact,” he added, his grin widening, “some of my most memorable moments have occurred when I had at least one arm tied behind my back.”

Leliana coughed, Morrigan rolled her eyes… and I thought he meant boasting about being able to win duels or something. My brow furrowed.

“Huh? You’d need one hand free to hold your sword, wouldn’t you?”

Zevran gave me a look of curious surprise, then let out a throaty, honey-smooth laugh, accompanied by a few smirks and snorts from the others. As a red-eyed, pale and rather tottery Levi sloped back apologetically to join us, only Sten, Alistair, and I were looking blank… and the qunari’s impassiveness was more to do with impatience.

“We shouldn’t linger,” Wynne said, as the chuckles died away. “There will likely be more.”

Levi was staring in horror at the dismantled bodies on the ground.

“W-what I don’t understand,” he began, his voice a shadow of its customary chipper tones, “is why some of ’em were… alive… an-and some of ’em are just… b-bones.”

“It’s not life,” Wynne said gently, laying her hand on the man’s arm. “What you saw were demons… weak, angry spirits who seek to possess mortals. If they are not able to do that, they may prey upon the dead, where the memory of life clings on. The things you saw had mostly likely been wandering this place since your great-great-grandmother’s time, driven mad by the corpses they inhabited decaying around them.”

Levi’s mouth bowed and he looked as if, had there been anything left in his stomach, it probably wouldn’t have stayed there.

“Urrr,” he said plaintively. “Poor buggers.”

It wasn’t my first thought after fighting off a pack of them, but I could see his point. It had settled on the others, too… Alistair especially.

“We should do something,” he said, his voice tinged with that slight huskiness I remembered from the Wilds: the raw edges of grief and outraged loss. “When we’re sure everything’s safe, we should… well, we have to give their memories some kind of respect. Whatever happened here, those things were still men once. Wardens. That deserves to be acknowledged.”

I knew, even without looking at him, the hard and bitter lines that would be marking his face. He wasn’t like me. His oath burned brightly in his heart, and he saw a brother in every one of these piles of bones.

Maker… for all I knew, he saw Duncan.

I nodded. “We will. Once we’ve cleared the keep and the foregate, and taken a look at those two towers to the rear. I don’t think we’re close to being done here yet.”

Those words were truer than I’d hoped.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

The doors to the keep had once been massive, oak-timbered things, hard as stone and bound with great bands of iron. For having endured more than a century of neglect, they’d stood up well, although they had clearly been breached during Arland’s siege. They hung, broken, cracked like the lids of sarcophagi and, stepping through them into the musty darkness of that stone tomb, I had the most horrible sense of walking on unquiet graves.

The first chamber we entered was large, square, stone-built, and had a small dais to the far end, the remains of a broken barricade piled up around it… evidence of a retreat, I supposed. Beyond that, two doors led off, both hanging, cracked, from their hinges. The tattered, rotten shreds of tapestries clung to the walls, and I thought I made out the glimpses of Grey Warden heraldry on the muted scraps. Dilapidated stone benches, decorated with the remnants of bold, ornate carvings, fringed the walls, beneath the stylised sculptures of knights and Wardens that sat in the alcoves. It must have been an impressive room, once. Now, though, thick swathes of cobwebs hung from the vaulted ceiling and stretched from the high, heavy beams all the way into the corners, and the whole place stank of death and sickly, yet strangely static, decay.

I was aware of Morrigan pacing the boundaries of the room, as if she could sniff out dark magic in the very stones. Maethor had been sticking to my side like glue, and he butted his wet nose into my palm, whining softly. A sharp line of brindled fur stood raised from the back of his skull all the way to the base of that stubby tail, which was clamped firmly down. I scratched his ears absently, trying to give him what little assurance I could… although I suspected I was being a fool not to listen to the hound’s judgement.

Something was very, very wrong within these walls.

“Look at this,” Leliana said. She stood over by the doors, peering at a mouldy, ragged poster she’d found on the wall. “It says ‘Statement of Defiance’.”

“Defiance?” Alistair echoed. “What…?”

Her slender fingers traced the faded words, her brow creasing as she tried to read what little was left.

“I’m not sure. It says, ‘On these grounds, the… the virtuous stood against a tyrant. They stood defiant and they stood for—’ What’s that? Oh, I see. ‘They stood for freedom. And—’ Oh.” Her mouth bowed in dismay. “‘And they died.’” Leliana glanced sadly at me, clearly moved by what she’d read. “It looks as if the last Grey Wardens who were left defending the Peak signed it. There were many names here, but I can’t read them. Too much has been lost.”

She touched the paper reverently, evidently wishing she could pick out the names, but it seemed as if they—along with all those anonymous bones we’d scattered—were destined to remain unclaimed.

I wondered at that. It was part of being a Grey Warden, wasn’t it? Giving up our families when we joined, turning our backs on links with our old lives. It was what we were required to do. We lived in service, brethren united in a single common goal, and when we died, who remembered us? Who did we ever leave behind except other empty souls with no destiny but lonely death, either in some fleeting battle, or in the darkness of the Deep Roads?

“They were so brave,” Levi said wistfully, glancing around the ruined hall. “And my great-great-grandmother stood with them, _led_ them… right to the end.”

His gaze clouded, but he didn’t put words to the thought I supposed he must be having. Would we find the bones of Sophia herself?

We moved briskly through the rest of the keep’s lower floor. There were smaller rooms off the main, public area; wardrooms, guards’ chambers and the like, I supposed. I didn’t really know much about the business of running a place like this.

Wynne and Morrigan both seemed wary… nervous, even, though neither of them would commit to saying what they felt. Most of the rooms we investigated contained little but bones and broken, rotten pieces of furniture, but in one of the small side-chambers, we found a wealth of documents. I was ready to pass on, thinking that reams of dusty, worm-eaten paper couldn’t tell us anything important, but Wynne wanted to look.

“These are treasurer’s records,” she said, skimming carefully through the rolls. “There are plans here… details of expenses…. This will all be very useful, if you are to press the Peak back into service.”

“Hm.”

I tried to sound positive, but just looking at the amount of work that needed to be done—not counting shovelling up the dead and trying to get the smell of a century’s decomposition out of the stones—had already convinced me the fortress held more problems than answers. If the worst came to the worst, perhaps a few hundred people could hole up here, but there were too many breaches in the outer wall for it to provide much protection, especially against darkspawn… or even a civil war, if it really came to that.

I shook the thoughts away. We didn’t _know_ that would happen. If we could just have whoever ended up in charge of Redcliffe in our corner—whether it was Arl Eamon, Lady Isolde, or Bann Teagan—there was a chance we could force Loghain to accept the Orlesian Grey Wardens who must still be waiting across the border. I believed that wholeheartedly… clung to the belief, perhaps, in spite of logic and good sense.

“They say this whole place went up in record time,” Levi offered conversationally. He stood by the door, rubbing his arm in a slightly nervous manner, as if he might have expected monsters to burst out of the walls. “Ten years was all it took, first off. That Asturian… he knew what he wanted and how to get it, and no mistake!”

“It looks,” Wynne added, sifting through the papers, “as if some of the last Wardens here—in your great-great-grandmother’s time—were investigating the possibility of catacombs… secret passageways that Commander Asturian had built. There are mentions here to something written by his successor, Commander Halwic. If we had a little more time, I could perhaps see what—”

“Maybe later,” I said, glancing back into the shadowed halls of the keep. “I don’t know if I’m the only one, but I don’t feel safe here yet.”

She nodded, and gingerly lifted a few parchments from the table, sliding them between the leaves of a handy account book for preservation before she secreted them in one of her numerous leather bags.

We pressed on and found, deeper into the keep, that although there were fewer bones and signs of struggle, there was no less a sense of discomfort.

Much of the building remained untouched: mildewy and stagnant, but still with its carved doorways and great, looming statues. There were stone staircases, atrophied scraps of tapestries probably once decorated with griffons and thread of gold, and Alistair started getting the kind of look on his face that suggested he was holding his breath in the presence of heroes.

“There is something dark within this place,” Morrigan said, as we climbed the stairway. “Be on your guard.”

I said nothing. On my guard? I didn’t even like putting my palm on the handrail, afraid that the stone was going to turn to slimy, dead flesh beneath my touch.

“Oh, good,” Alistair said dryly, squinting into the shadows. “More walking dead, do we think? That’d be a little predictable.”

“I don’t know,” Wynne said, from the back of the group. “But I feel it more strongly than ever here. There are… things that should not be present. Things that have no place this side of the Veil.”

“More d-demons?” Levi quavered.

If he bunched up any closer behind Sten, I suspected the qunari would lose patience and lob him over the banister.

“Then we will outmatch them,” he said, though it sounded like a bitter challenge rather than optimism.

Alistair snorted. “Yes, if we get the chance. Unless we’re outnumbered by more walking corpses first. I mean, think about it. How many people d’you think were here when Arland’s men attacked? Two, three hundred? More? What if—”

Leliana tutted reproachfully and elbowed him in the ribs and, reluctantly, he shut up. It was a good point, though. For all we knew, there could be countless more demon-inhabited corpses awaiting us… not to mention whatever else had managed to crawl across the ruptured Veil.

I shuddered. As we reached the upper floor, the air felt colder than ever. Zevran butted up behind me, fiddling with something propped between his chest and the arm still bound in the sling. He glanced up at me and smiled absently.

“Ah, good. Be an angel and hold this for me, yes? Don’t get it on your skin,” he added, pushing a small stone bottle into my fingers.

It stank—an awful bitter, greasy smell—and I winced as I saw he’d been applying the liquid to the blade of one of his daggers. I frowned.

“Wh—?”

“Just a little edge,” Zevran said cryptically, balancing the dagger lightly between two fingers as he stoppered the bottle and, taking it from me, slipped it back into his scrip.

He didn’t sheathe the blade, I noticed, and it glimmered dully… and seemed somehow more threatening. I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination, or if a faint blue glow really chased along the steel.

I arched a brow. “Poison?”

He smiled again, and it was the sharp, empty smile of a weapon primed, or a predator preparing to strike. Morrigan, standing stiffly by one of the doors that led off this wide, windowless corridor, sniffed and then curled her lip.

“Magebane? Why do I fail to be surprised you carry such filth with you?”

Zevran simply shrugged, and gave her another of those paper-thin, glittering smiles. She scoffed, raised a hand, and let a gout of blue light flare in it, illuminating the hallway.

“Just so long as you are aware: come near me with that and you _will_ regret it. This I promise you, elf.”

He affected a look of incredulous innocence. “As if I would even contemplate such a deed, o magical temptress.”

Morrigan sneered, and Sten grumbled something under his breath as he stepped forwards, heading on into the next room, evidently impatient and eager to finish clearing the keep.

I couldn’t say I blamed him.

The first room we came to was a library. Somehow, I hadn’t expected Soldier’s Peak to have one, but there it was, and it was… vast. Shelves lined the walls, stretching up to the ceiling and crammed with books, scrolls and thick, leather-bound archive volumes. They were immense, and the musty, dank smell of old paper hit me like the heat from a bread oven. I coughed, wincing as I looked at the piles of tomes.

The fighting had evidently not come this far up the keep… or, at least, not as chaotically as below. There was still order here; an eerie kind of order, as if, beneath the thick layers of dust and grime, the books had been neatly put into place by someone who might walk back in at any second. Most of them, anyway. One pile lay sprawled haphazardly on the floor, opposite the fireplace, which was framed by two marble griffons. There looked to be a few scorch marks on the ground, and one of the volumes was open.

Wynne crossed tentatively towards it, and prodded at the pile with her foot. A dry, desiccated quill pen slipped from the pages, and rolled twice when it hit the floor. She frowned and, slowly, lowered herself to a crouch to get a better look at the book.

I found myself tensing, as if some hideous demonic creature might suddenly burst from the pages. Stupid, I told myself… wasn’t it?

All the same, my left hand on the pommel of my dagger, my right itching for the comfort of a sword hilt, I crossed the library’s stone floor and stood behind her, watching as her fingers carefully, tenderly, brushed the dust from the vellum. Leliana wandered over too, her appetite for tales and history obviously whetted. The book had been badly burned at some point, and had since been subjected to the ravages of damp and rot, but it looked as if it would be possible for them to make out a few passages.

“The archivists,” Wynne said quietly. “They were recording everything… right until the end.”

It seemed to me that there were probably more important things to do when besieged, but I couldn’t deny this would be useful to us. Levi scurried at once to Wynne’s side, hopeful of finding some mention of Sophia’s heroism, and I peered up at the endless tiers of books, rising above me like some kind of paper cathedral.

The dusty floorboards creaked, and I flinched.

“What are you thinking?”

Alistair’s voice, and his apparent materialisation at my shoulder, were both a little unexpected. He shot me a small, encouraging smile, and I could see the muddy uncertainty in his eyes; he didn’t like any of this any more than I did.

I cleared my throat.

“Um. It’s, er, a lot of books. Records… Grey Warden history, maybe.” I rubbed awkwardly at the back of my neck, and shrugged. “There could be a lot here we don’t know. Things we’ll need to know if—”

“Yeah.” Alistair nodded, but didn’t look awfully happy about it. “Maybe there’ll be something here that explains the Joining, or how to actually fight an archdemon.”

“Mm-hm.” I smiled mirthlessly. “‘Ending a Blight in Six Easy Lessons’.”

He snorted. “Ooh, yes. D’you think there’s a card catalogue?”

I shook my head, the laughter forgotten. Whatever treasures were in this library, they were buried deep. We hadn’t the time to work through so much information, even if it _was_ the sort of thing Grey Wardens kept on their shelves.

Wynne’s sudden inhalation of breath caught both our attention, and I looked up to see Levi leap back from the book as if he’d been as badly singed as some of its pages. And that did finally strike me as strange… why should those papers on the floor be damaged, when this room—with all its flammable paper and wood—had not been gutted by fire?

I didn’t pause to think it over fully, more worried by what had startled Wynne and the trader. Leliana still knelt in front of the book, but her head was bowed, her hand pressed to her mouth.

“Maker’s breath, no….” Levi moaned. “I-I can’t believe it!”

“What?” Alistair demanded. “What is it?”

Wynne shook her head, her mouth a tight line. “Even as King Arland’s men were beating on the doors, the Wardens’ archivists wrote the truth, crabbed into the margins of this book. It was a brave thing to do.”

“They were using blood magic!” Levi protested, his voice rising in pitch and colour beginning to burn in those pasty cheeks. “That’s what… wossname… tore the Veil! The Grey Wardens was using _blood_ magic to overthrow the king!”

His words seemed to find a hollow chink of silence, and filled it completely.

The accusation seemed wild, impossible, unbelievable… and yet it explained a great deal. The things Morrigan and Wynne spoke of feeling, the walking corpses with the ravening souls of demons within them, and the way this whole place seemed caught outside of time, decayed and yet unchanging….

I didn’t believe it. I didn’t _want_ to, but—

“‘It was never our place to oppose kings and princes,’” Wynne read, her fingers moving delicately under the words, trying to pare away the dust of years, and the unpalatable truth. “‘Commander Dryden took her rebellion too far. Now, those who refused to stand idly by while a tyrant bled his people die, not at his hands, but by the madness we have wrought ourselves.’”

Alistair’s face darkened. “Now just a minute—”

“It’s true.” Leliana rose from the book, her hand on Wynne’s shoulder. “This account speaks of the Grey Wardens conspiring with the nobles who opposed King Arland. He did not turn on them; _they_ struck the first blow. And they resorted to… terrible things.”

He stared as if she’d just ripped the very breath of life out of him.

I stepped forward before we had an argument on our hands. “What does the book say? Exactly?”

Wynne glanced at Alistair before she looked at me, tight-lipped. I took another step, and my boots echoed on the worn boards. I wanted her to see me, not him, and know that _my_ questions were the ones she had to answer. If Alistair chose this of all moments to decide he’d rather lead than follow then so be it, but unless he did, I remained in charge.

Wynne blinked, and the corners of her mouth turned down a little, as if she was reluctant to voice anything.

“It is… unclear. If it wasn’t so badly burned, then perhaps— There was a siege of many months. These people were starving, diseased… see, here, there is a name. A mage.” Her fingers traced between the words once more, the pages dark with charring and age. “‘The Commander demanded more than Avernus could control. The rituals went wrong; blood spilled and summonings splintered. He sundered the Veil, and doomed us all. We only pray the gate holds, and this evil remains shackled. Let our fate be a lesson: our vigilance was not enough.’”

Wynne’s low, precise tones whispered into silence against the walls, though echoes seemed to linger there… murmurs and voices of things I couldn’t possibly be hearing. I gritted my teeth, trying to drive them away, but it was like an itch beneath my skin.

“Blood magic,” Levi muttered mournfully. “This… this is not what I was hoping to find.”

Morrigan scoffed. She was prowling between the shelves, her staff ticking on the stones, and looked as ill at ease as I’d ever seen her. I wondered if she’d felt that whispering too, but I didn’t want to mention it, in case it was just me.

“It sounds as if they were desperate,” Zevran said, eyeing the doorway. “ _Very_ desperate.”

The trader wrinkled his nose miserably. “We-ell, still… I’d hoped my family was better than that.”

“Yes.” The fitments on Alistair’s armour clinked as, abruptly, he turned and stalked to the far door, pressing on into the rest of this floor. “I expect so.”

I stifled a sigh of frustration and, turning to the others, gestured after him.

“All right, let’s move. Maker only knows what we might still find. Wynne? What did it mean, ‘the gate’?”

The mage looked uncertainly at me as she rose to her feet, but it was Morrigan who cut across her with a reply.

“Those who believe they can summon and control demons may attempt to bind them. If that is what this fool did, it is possible he may have used the same rituals to chain the creatures to this place. If so, it has worked… at least to a degree.”

By which she meant we weren’t currently standing in a pit of boiling flesh and the sky hadn’t cracked in two, I assumed. I curled my lip.

“Lovely.”

I stood back and counted the whole group through the doorway, waiting to be the last out of the archive room. I cast one final look around it before I turned and left, and those still, silent walls of knowledge, arching up into the cobwebbed, dust-choked rafters, made me shudder.

The voice came then; just a whisper on the stones that I could almost believe I hadn’t heard.

 _…nelatep obresooth sythan net bekon…._

It was a dark, silent breath, a sound that slithered right into the centre of my mind, and grated out words that weren’t like any tongue I thought could possibly exist. Misshapen, ugly, sinister… they were to speech what darkspawn were to men, and I was suddenly consumed by the thought that it would be that—not demons, not shades, not anything like the secret, Fade-wrought horrors of Redcliffe—but the rage of the Black City itself that would pour out on us.

I blinked, forcing myself to think clear, sensible thoughts, and I pushed on after the others.

Who knew what else might be hiding in this place.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Soldier's Peak continues to yield its secrets... and they are not what Merien expected to find. _Caveat for gore, violence & horror._

The keep had evidently once been busy. We found officers’ quarters, storerooms and larger spaces, their original use unclear, but their final use all too obvious. The siege had seen people camped together, pressed cheek-by-jowl as they awaited the end. In what had probably been a great hall—a meeting place, or maybe somewhere for guests—we found more bones… including those of a child, perhaps less than ten years of age. Old canvas and leather packs and cots had rotted to the floor, and the great carved faces of statues—Grey Wardens of legend, I assumed, from their heraldry and fearsome dignity—looked down impassively at the scene.

“Maker, look at that!” Levi exclaimed, approaching a dim, battered painting that hung between two of the statues. “That’s her, that is! Sophia Dryden herself.”

I glanced over. There wasn’t much of a family resemblance. I saw, picked out in oils dulled with years and dust, a stern-looking woman with black hair and a face like a cobbler’s lathe, all flat planes and uncompromising hardness. She wore armour like that of the statues—huge and ornate, and probably mostly ceremonial—and seemed to be glaring out of the canvas as if she disapproved of the world that had come about around her.

Yes… I supposed it could be the face of a Grey Warden who’d turned to forbidden magic, seduced by the idea of being able to control something so dark.

“Strange,” Morrigan said archly, tilting her head as she peered at the portrait. “She does not _look_ a fool.”

Levi turned to face her, mouth open, presumably about to defend his family’s honour, but shut it again without saying a word. Of course, those golden, cat-like eyes could do that to a person.

Still, I couldn’t help it: I wanted to be angry. I wanted to be angry with the order, with the old tyrant, Arland, with the bloodshed and the evil, and everything else… and yet it didn’t quite happen. It felt too much like walking on ground that, if not hallowed, was marked as something other, something set aside. There were too many graves beneath my feet for my judgement alone to change them.

One of the statues caught my eye, too. I supposed, back in Warden-Commander Asturian’s time, this chamber would have been one of those impressive public spaces, meant to dazzle and awe guests—which probably meant we were nearing the Commander’s chambers. I could just imagine those granted an audience with the leader of the Wardens being made to wait here, under the gaze of these disdainful marble gods. It didn’t seem like something Duncan would ever have done in his role as Commander, and I supposed that marked out how much things had changed in the time the Grey Wardens had been banished… and how different things had been since we returned.

“It’s Garahel,” Alistair said, noticing me staring at the statue. “The Warden who slew the last archdemon. He was—”

“Elven.” I nodded absently. “I know.”

The thing had to be at least six feet high: taller than Garahel himself would have been, and definitely much taller than me. It was beautifully carved, with attention to detail on all the buckles and plates of his wide, expansive suit of armour. A griffon, rampant, was picked out on his chest, while his hands leaned on the pommel of a vast longsword. The visor of his helmet was pushed back, displaying a face too perfectly carved to possibly resemble anyone real—the eyes didn’t even have pupils, and no elf I’d ever seen had such wide cheekbones, or such a square, human jaw. The helmet itself, though… that would have been a piece of work. The statue showed it cut high, specially made to allow room for proper ears, and Garahel’s jutted proudly from the sculpted metal, proclaiming his blood, his identity, in a way I’d never seen, or ever thought to see.

A statue of an elf. An actual memorial, a mark of honour… a tribute to an elven Warden, who had possessed power and influence, and before whom the leaders of men had bowed. The legions of darkspawn had broken beneath him, and an archdemon fallen at his blade.

… _kaelee ai benfotus victus_ ….

I caught my breath, the blood rushing in my ears, and the room seemed to pitch a little around me.

The others were moving on, heading towards—

 _The Commander’s quarters._

—the second door on the right. I frowned at their backs as they walked ahead of me. How did I know that? And the… the voice. The whispering….

There was a narrow corridor between the room we’d just left and the one we meant to enter… the only room on this floor whose ancient, virtually petrified door remained intact, and closed.

Morrigan’s fingers tightened on the neck of her staff as she raised it defensively, held in two hands before her.

“There,” she said. “In there.”

An atmosphere of intense anticipation settled over us all, and I wished there was more space. Being within close range of Morrigan when she got the scent of blood in her nostrils was frequently painful, not to mention the possibilities of all those elbows and pommels I was just at the right height to catch.

The intense anticipation wasn’t the only thing, however. Whispers filled my head: that voice that did not have the form of a voice returned to hiss into my ears, and murmurs seeped from the stones like grease.

… _sythan net bekon…._

They changed, shifted in the air, and became words that buzzed behind my eyes.

… _so much ssssuffering… and yessss, blood. Ssso much… blood…._

The smell of was in my nose, in the back of my throat—old meat and green copper, the bitter tang of flesh and fury—and I all but gagged.

“C-can’t anyone else hear that?” I blurted, as Sten gave the solid door a shove.

As the wood gave way, the whispers grew in pitch, squealing and vibrating inside my skull. I locked gazes with Wynne, and saw the alarm on her face, those clear blue eyes so much harder than I’d seen them… at least since the Circle Tower.

The whispers were a roar now, and I was amazed none of my companions could _hear_ , or smell, or… they were somewhere else, somewhere through thick, heavy water, somewhere through the rushing in my pounding head. I could see them receding—Sten, Alistair, Leliana, Levi, Morrigan and Zevran, all filing through that door—and Wynne, in front of me, her hand gripping my shoulder.

I felt it, I realised. Felt her pulling me back, the strength of her power…. I felt _that_ —and I felt the ringing, open-palmed slap she landed across my cheek.

“Ow!”

“Never let them in,” she hissed. “ _Never_!”

I put my hand to my face, the world reeling about me in a mess of smeared stone and streaked light. What in the Maker’s name had—

“Move,” Wynne urged, shoving me between the shoulder blades with surprising force. “If it is you that creature seeks to parley with, let us have this over.”

My jaw was still throbbing. “Wh…? I don’t understand what—”

She just shoved me again and, Maethor growling in a low rumble at my heels, I found myself pushed into what had once been the Warden-Commander’s privy chambers.

It must have been beautiful, once.

It must have been luxurious, grand, impressive… a room of dark wooden furniture and an enormous desk with a gigantic silver inkwell on it, and paintings hanging on the walls. There was a fireplace like the one in the library, either side of it held up by two carved griffons… but there was nothing but ash in the grate, and nothing but rot and decay in place of the ornate luxury. In the corner, a greatsword almost as tall as me stood on an ancient iron frame. Cobwebs thronged it, but I could make out the intricate detailing on the hilt, and the glint of jewels set into the tang and crossguards.

The smell of death, that sickly bouquet of flesh and dusky, must-rimed stagnation, choked me. The room’s shadows ran long and deep, the only light cast by two small windows at the top of the far wall, little more than arrow slits punched into the stone. It was like a tomb: an oppressive, dusty, stinking tomb… and, like most tombs, it was not empty.

The figure that stood between the great carved fireplace and the heavy desk was human, or at least ostensibly so.

It appeared to be a woman, tall and broad, with dark hair hanging to her shoulders in stringy hanks. She was heavily armoured in plate liveried with silver and dark blue, and the light caught at the ornate edging on the immense, collared pauldrons.

She did not turn at once, but tilted her head to the side as if she had heard our arrival, and was considering how worthy we were of her attention. At my side, Maethor put his ears back, flat to his skull, and bared his teeth. A low growl brewed in his throat.

We all knew what this creature was… but it didn’t make the knowing any easier.

I expected to hear the demon-whispers in my head again—this _thing_ , this creature, tasting my mind and reaching out to me. Why me? I wondered. Was I weaker, easier to break than the others?

I felt the murmurs stir, the faint hiss of a word outlined against my mind, and I closed the thoughts off, determined to meet this threat head-on, and in a world of flesh, not dreams.

The… whatever-she-was… the corpse, the puppet, the _thing_ that, so many years ago, had been Sophia Dryden—and yes, she was recognisable from her portrait in the hall, up there among those other heroes—turned slowly and jerkily towards us. Its head hung low, as if it was an effort for the creature to sustain lifting it, and the wet-looking hair (not damp, I could see now, but thick with grease and rot, like frayed rope coated with fat) hung around a face certainly ravaged by death, but better preserved than anything ought to be after a century of decay.

The eyes had turned to milky, sightless orbs, sunken and grotesque, while the flesh and muscle that held the lower jaw in place was rotted, slack… even the skin itself seemed to be barely stringing the creature together, a bloody mess of withered, white puckers and dark, decayed lesions. A demon’s powers might do much to keep a corpse together enough to walk, I supposed, but it could not completely halt the natural order of things. At least, not forever.

There was a whimper somewhere to my left, and I was aware of Levi clutching a hand to his mouth, clamping down on the obvious urge to gag. I couldn’t blame him.

The creature’s slack jaw dropped a little further open, and a creaking rush of air sounded, as if the thing was wheezing a death rattle. I’d heard the noises the corpses at Redcliffe made: snarls, groans and wordless, angry cries of anguish. The dead didn’t talk… but the cleverer kind of demon did.

The voice that left Warden-Commander Dryden’s body echoed and buzzed behind my eyes. It felt like the throb of swarming hornets, or the vicious hum of darkspawn, and I wanted to claw my own skull open, just to make it stop.

“Step no further, ssstrangerss. You enter my place now.”

The words came out thin and metallic, cloyed with a hushed kind of wheeziness… a slight echo that lingered beyond them, like two voices in one, two planes of existence colliding.

That was exactly what it was, I supposed: a demon, unleashed and hungry for a mortal life, trapped in a decaying prison of flesh that could neither feel nor grow. Not that it was easy to find sympathy for the creature.

“We talk.”

Its lips—or what was left of them—didn’t move quite in time with the words. Gums and skin had peeled back, shrinking from what teeth remained in its head and giving them an elongated, fang-like appearance. A dark, clotted, bloody wound, not unlike the withered lesions I’d seen on darkspawn flesh, took up part of the thing’s left cheek, and its head swayed slowly from side to side as it formed the right mouth-shapes for speaking.

Maethor lunged forwards, claws scraping on the stones, his teeth bared as he barked and growled ferociously.

The demon wearing Sophia’s body hissed, and raised one heavy gauntlet, twisting that dead, rotten face away. Was that fear, I wondered, or anxiety over possible damage to its host? How in the Maker’s name did we kill this thing anyway? There was no recourse to the Circle Tower here, no lyrium and no rituals… would destroying the body be enough? It worked with the skeletons, at least enough to dissipate their power, but _this_ … this was a stronger, darker creature completely.

My mind ran on apace, thoughts splintering like a school of fish while my gut clenched and my pulse hummed.

The demon turned those milky, crusted eyes on me, the lolling head stooped and nodding as it retreated further behind the desk, its body as hunched as anything wearing that massive armour could have been.

“Get the annoyance away from me! This one would sssspeak with you.”

I held out two fingers, and Maethor backed down, though he still stood by my side, foursquare and hackles raised, teeth bared and every muscle bunched in preparation for a killing leap.

The thick, tainted air hung heavy with tension, and I could hear Levi’s ragged breathing.

“Wh-who— _what_ is that?” he stammered.

The rotten, withered head tilted slightly, and that blackened jaw opened, the remnants of lips parted like fetid slugs around the words.

“This one is the Dryden. Commander. Sophia. All thesssse things.”

I didn’t want to look away—didn’t want to risk taking my attention from the creature for a moment—but I could feel Levi’s terror and confusion. I doubted he’d ever seen anything like this before. Technically, neither had I, but it was hardly the time to debate specifics… although it _might_ have been worth a small wager on whether or not the creature actually smelled worse than the darkspawn.

“M-my great-great-grandmother’s dead,” Levi managed. “I don’t know what you are—”

There was something awful about that unblinking stare, like the deathly opalescence of a mirror caught at midnight, or the opaque eyes of a roasted fish, burst and bubbling. The way it tilted that sagging, broken head, birdlike and almost delicate, contrasted horribly with the ugly, crooked movements of its face.

“This one hasss tasted her memoriesss,” it said, with something unpleasantly like a hungry leer, leaning forward and placing Sophia’s gauntlet-covered hands on the desk. “Ssseen her thoughts and hidden placesss. But she is food for this one. No more, no less.”

The thin threads of light that pierced the room picked out every lesion, every ragged, rotten scar. The stink of death and sulphur assailed me, and bile rose in the back of my throat.

I had to turn my head away, gulping at the hope of air I knew wouldn’t be any fresher, and I could see the faces of my companions, ashen and staring. The fingers of Leliana’s left hand were at her throat, touching the symbol of Andraste she wore, as a silent prayer moved on her lips. Zevran was beside her, his face blank but his eyes two burning coals, seeking weaknesses and weighing chances. Wynne and Morrigan, both tight-lipped, stood near the door like twin watchmen, the tension evident in every muscle, while Alistair already had his sword drawn, the blade held low but ready. Revulsion etched every line of his face, and it was the same outrage I saw flash in Sten’s vivid, angry eyes as he looked at me, not even acknowledging the presence of the creature before us.

“The Qun is clear in the matter of demons,” he said stiffly. “They must be destroyed, quickly and efficiently. Enough talk.”

He had a point… not that I was in any kind of rush to fight the thing. We might have outnumbered it, but I had no idea what it could do. I opened my mouth, but my head felt full and fuzzy, and the words lay thick on my tongue.

At my side, Maethor growled. The demon leaned further forwards, the greasy remnants of hair hanging from its peeling scalp, its whole manner that of some ingratiating, horrific reptile. Its head swayed from side to side as it spoke, and that keening buzz, that incipient murmur, grated in my ears.

“Sssstrike this one down now, more will come. Ssso many here in thisss place. Make deal, you thwart many of my kind. This one can help you do that. This one will explain, yessss?”

Alistair curled his lip. “Do we really want to hear this? I didn’t think we were in the business of making deals with demons.”

I shook my head. We weren’t. _I_ wasn’t… and yet my head was laden with pictures and thoughts that didn’t feel right. Elven Wardens, in sleek, silver armour, and whispers of power and gold.

The creature fixed me once more with those dead eyes, and its crabbed, wheezing, two-toned voice scraped against the inside of my skull.

“The Soldier’s Peak trapsss me. All of ussss. We came at the mage’s summon, and he bindsss us here. Already you end many of my kind to get thisss far. There are others. Othersss from which this one keeps you safe. This one commands you are not to be touched… because thisss one would propose a deal. Choose this one, or many of my kind.”

The blackened lips peeled back into a hideous parody of a grin, and my gut lurched. Alistair let out a cough of incredulous disgust.

“Huh. Really? We’re meant to trust a demon’s word, are we?”

I couldn’t tear my gaze from the demon as it straightened up, preening in the rotted, stinking body it wore, befouling that venerable armour with its filthy, tainted flesh. If that was true—if it alone could keep back more of its kind, like starving dogs snarling at each over a bone—how powerful must it be?

It spread Sophia’s hands humbly, and looked up with those dead eyes, the curled grin of its ragged mouth deepening.

“Could this one ssstand against such mighty foe? Sssee how easssily you cut down my brethren, yesss? This one would be a fool to cross you. Lisssten… then ssstrike this one down, if the termsss are unacceptable.”

That awful, ingratiating whine in its voice made me feel dirty, and the stench of death and empty years seemed to cling to my skin, clogging my throat.

“What do you want?” I heard myself ask, the voice a rough, hoarse whisper, barely mine.

I knew the others wouldn’t approve. I was sure I heard Wynne’s reproachful intake of breath. Any of them would have been brave and noble and simply batted away the idea of striking bargains with demons. But I wasn’t them… I was tired, and sore, and afraid of choosing an evil we couldn’t fight over one we might just be able to handle.

The demon leered at me.

“This one sees ssso many tantalising places in the Dryden’s memoriesss,” it said, with an air almost of triumph, its dead stare sickeningly compelling. “This one would see the world for herself. Sssee, roam… _feed_. If you kill the mage, break the tower, this one will ssseal the Veil. No more demons, no more enemies. Your Peak, all sssafe. Then you let this one go into the world. Yes?”

The silence in the chamber was deafening. I could barely breathe. Thoughts roared in my mind—memories that weren’t even my own, and the suffocating drawl of these long-dead Wardens and their tainted sanctity. I could hear the clang of metal on pitted metal, the steel-song of blades and the thuds of bodies falling… the cries and shouts of men as the battle fell away around them, and left only the demons.

 _…we would have sssstood until the last, never sssurrendered, never danced the jig on Arland’sss gallowsss…._

The Dryden—the thing that was no longer Sophia, that brave and brilliant commander, that warrior who had held her men to the same tough standards she set for herself, and whose bullish, single-minded determination had been her downfall—purred behind my eyes.

Soft, insidious things caressed my mind.

 _The Warden… it knowsss, yes? It understands. Feelss the weight of command. Knowsss the blood, the sssacrifice of war. Needsss thisss power, yes?_

Silver armour glimmered like a fish, slipping quickly through the thoughts that were mine, and yet not mine. A sword, streaked with black, filthy ichor, scythed through the dark, and above everything came that insistent, grinding hum.

 _So bright, so brave, so sssstrong…._

Maethor growled, spittle flying from the white bars of his teeth, and lunged forwards again, loosing another deep, fierce bark.

The hound’s voice cut through the lies. I shook my head, shook the thoughts away… and the shade, the imagining of Garahel flittered into nothingness, lost and broken into pieces against the shadows that flooded back in. There was nothing then but fear, doubt and uncertainty… and _anger_. Violent, bloody anger, channelled into searing fury. How dare this thing try to blind me? How _dare_ it reach into my mind? And how could I allow it?

I scowled at the creature before us as I reached for my dagger. “That mabari is smarter than you are, demon. We don’t deal with your kind. You die. Now.”

The creature’s wasted, putrid face contorted; blackened, tooth-filled mouth and bloody, grey skin stretched around a snarl of rage.

“Fool!”

It flung itself to the side, exhibiting far more speed and agility than Sophia’s long-dead flesh should have had, and seized the greatsword from its stand. Somehow, I supposed I should have expected that.

The huge blade arced through the air before me, tearing through the dimness and cloaked with the demon’s scream of rage. I jumped back, caught off-guard by its swiftness and the sheer weight of that weapon, and I felt it then… not the things the demon had tried to blind me with, but the things it had been keeping back.

A light—a burst of fire or something, I didn’t see what—erupted at my left, in the fireplace, and there was a noise like the tumble of burning bricks. Heat rolled over me, and there was the roar of flames. The demon propelled Sophia’s body towards me and I ducked and twisted, throwing myself out of the way as Sten met the blow with an almighty clash of his two-handed blade.

The heavy wood of the Warden-Commander’s desk pressed into the small of my back and, in one jumbled, insane moment, I saw what looked like a creature made of fire bloom forth from the fireplace. It burned—real fire, real flames—yet it was contained, as if it was not just in the form of fire, but truly made _from_ it. The thing had no head, no mouth or face, yet it seemed to cry out, its roar that of blind rage and the howl of vicious flames.

I didn’t even see Morrigan, but then a blast of ice cut down the centre of the room, steam billowing where it met the fire-creature. It seemed to slow it, though it didn’t stop the thing entirely. I had no time to stare, however: Sophia came staggering back under the weight of Sten’s next blow, and one heavily plated elbow almost smashed me in the face. I tried to grab on, holding the demon from getting two hands back on that massive blade, and—in my usual, not-so-classic manner of battle—landed a good, hard kick in the back of the creature’s knees.

Of course, when the opponent is already dead, targeting tender areas is not much use.

In any case, she flung me aside, the stench of decomposed flesh choking me even as one gauntleted fist met the bridge of my nose. Pain seared through my skull and stars flashed before my eyes. I staggered sideways, aware of Alistair’s bellow of alarm as I hit the wall. I could just make him out by the door… trying to hold it shut.

 _Oh, crap._

Tasting blood, I drew my second dagger—the room was already quite full enough with swords—and tried to take stock.

At Redcliffe, we’d dispatched the undead by removing their heads. That worked. It was permanent. It had seemed to work just as well with the corpses we’d encountered in the foregate, though the whole fortress was so riddled with demons and spirits that Maker alone knew whether the bastards actually _stayed_ dead.

That aside, Sophia was too heavily armoured to make decapitation a simple option, and I didn’t know _what_ one did with demons made entirely of fire. I saw Wynne and Morrigan tackling that creature, I thought, but the steam and flames and magical energy—rending the room with its bright crashes and that hot, searing smelled that itched right at the back of my throat, even through this accursed stink of death—blurred my vision.

I heard Maethor yelp, and my heart leapt in panic, but I couldn’t see him. There was nothing to do but lunge back at the Sophia-creature, dancing and twisting and trying to stay out of the way of that sword of hers while I looked for a weakness in the armour.

She was a match for Sten. That terrified me.

Up until that moment, every time I’d seen him fight he’d seemed to scythe through enemies like corn… but now that dark, graven face was set into a grimace of effort, bright eyes narrowed and white braids swinging wildly. The two of them were pressed close, blade to blade, his physical strength against the demon’s unnatural prowess. I saw that blotched, blackened face open in a vile and hateful scream, and plunged the first of my daggers into the join at the back of its breastplate, just beneath the arm.

It was enough to distract the demon, but not much more. It broke from Sten and, as I ducked away, trying to lead it, he was able to land a blow across its back. That greasy, rope-like hair caught against the ravaged, pitted flesh of its sunken face, and yet it swung again with such dexterity, such quickness… I barely had time to take a breath before I had to dart out of range again.

I should have looked more closely at where I stepped. The mages’ spells burned a path across the floor, and I stumbled as the edge of what felt like a wall of water hit me. It was something arcane, some kind of magic that, later, I would learn was tied to the school of spirit.

At the time, all I knew was that it sucked the air from my lungs and left me light-headed and then I was staring into the very core of the thing made of flames, and I felt its rage burning right to the centre of my soul.

It swung at me with some kind of appendage that might loosely have been termed an arm, and I leapt back, the heat bursting over me, fit to roast me through my leathers. There was another flash, a smell like warm bread and copper, and the thing roared. It seemed weakened, though… much like our defences.

The door to the Commander’s quarters did not hold, and I saw with horror that more walking dead had swarmed their way up to us. Maker knew where they’d sprung from… whether the demon had been holding them back, like it said, or commanding them the way we’d seen the creature that had possessed Connor do in Redcliffe. Maybe they’d been following us like hounds on a blood-scent since the moment we stepped through the gates.

It didn’t matter. What was undeniable was the numbers: long-dead Wardens and king’s men alike, bones discoloured and bedraggled with moss and corpseweed, their rag-tag armour hanging from them as—weapons clenched in fleshless fingers—they tore their way through the door. There was no way we could cut through that volume of the creatures… but there was no escape, either.

I gripped my blades, and launched myself back into the fray, prepared to go down fighting.

It was more a brawl than a battle; though the chamber was large, it was a mess of scuffling bodies, no space for form or elegance. Between the flares of magic and the flames of demons, I saw snatches and impressions of what was happening, burned against my eyes like the still frames of a sky riven by lightning.

Alistair was trying to hold the corpses at the door, but the choke point couldn’t keep them off forever. More of the things poured through, and his sword glanced and sang off bone and armour. The mages’ bolts and blasts still ripped the air, but there was more magic at play than that. Not all the walking dead were warriors.

I saw ragged, decayed swatches of fabric clinging to one of the things and, at first, thought it must have been a woman… until venomous, violent magic burst from its withered hands, fingers like dead twigs scribing foul glyphs in the air. The mage-corpse looked better preserved than the others. I found myself wondering if some of the Grey Wardens’ mages hadn’t offered themselves over to the demons, trying to deal their way out of certain death. Had Sophia herself done that? Or had the thing that drove her now only taken her flesh once she was dead?

If it had seen her memories, absorbed her mind that way… she must have been alive, mustn’t she? Alive, and either willing to trade her soul, or too weak to stop the possession.

The thoughts tore at me, maddening impressions of half-answered trailing questions and horrible, horrible possibilities, and they muddied themselves in the fighting. I caught sight of Zevran—his sling pushed back to free both arms, though the injured one was distinctly weaker—sinuously dancing his way past the corpse’s spell, even as Alistair flung his shield up to block the rain of dark fire, and plunging that poisoned blade into the core of its body. The thing squealed, hunched, lashed out… but could not stop the next blow that separated its head from its body.

It fell, though its place was taken by more of the things, and I saw Leliana and Zevran pirouette and dive between the creatures, aiming endless solid and efficient strikes. They had a mutual grace, a shared gift with steel and unnerving accuracy that saw them tear down three corpses apiece in quick succession before something rotten and stinking thudded into me and I lost sight of them again, preoccupied with my own dead flesh to rend.

The Sophia-creature had almost forced Sten to his knees as I fought my way back to the edge of the room. I couldn’t see Maethor, and I feared the worst until, with a snarl and an unholy stench of singed fur, the mabari leapt and thudded into that blue-and-silver breastplate, jarring the demon back. It screamed—an ethereal, awful, wheezing cry like the hissing scurry of roaches—and as the hound was flung aside, I saw not only the blood that streaked his coat, but the portion of the corpse’s slack, withered jaw he’d taken with him.

I pushed forwards, aiming my dagger for the unprotected panel of its neck, thinking perhaps I could get myself onto its back and gain better access from there. It turned, dead eyes staring wildly from a torn, ravaged face, the few yellowed stumps of teeth that were left protruded like barbs around a sickening, black maw… no mouth, no lower part of the face left. Nothing but malice and madness.

I leapt—well, flung myself—too close to the thing for its greatsword to do me any harm, and my momentum was just enough to unsteady it. Sten stuck out a leg, tripped the creature, and I fell with it to the ground, choked and swallowed whole in a fetid fug of putrescent death and smoke. It screamed, flailed, fought me every inch of the way. One hard, gauntleted hand connected with my face, but even as blood filled my mouth and stars burst in front of my eyes, I held fast to its greasy, brittle hair, my blade chewing at the desiccated gristle of its throat.

Those whispers, those words that had no form and yet spoke of everything—wealth, power, peace, victory… the smiling faces of family, and even the imagined arms of a lover—clawed at my mind. The true extent of the demon’s power, even tainted with that insane desperation, was frightening. If it had tried to trick us, the way the sloth demon in the Circle Tower had, I knew we’d all have been lost. Instead, it had assumed I would choose to make a deal… and I didn’t know whether that meant it had underestimated me, or simply been too arrogant.

It made one last effort, clinging violently to the body it had inhabited for so long and trying to shake me off. One gauntleted hand connected with my temple, jarring me just enough to dislodge my grip. The creature managed to get one metal-laced hand around my throat and then we were struggling, somewhere beneath the forest of fire and legs, and the chaos of the fighting blossoming all around us. I punched, kicked, gouged and stabbed, one dagger long since scudded across the floor and the other clutched for dear life in fingers I could no longer feel. It threw me off, and I skidded along the slick, filthy floor, cracking the back of my head on the great dark wooden desk.

The creature began to rear up, intent on ending me, and never saw Sten’s sword coming. The massive pauldrons of the Warden-Commander’s armour protected it from swipes and cuts, but not thrusts. In the brief moment before self-preservation encouraged me to roll out of the way, I saw the hideous grimace of surprise on the withered, ragged face as the qunari’s immense blade punctured the back of its neck and exited cleanly through the front.

The scrape of metal on metal echoed in my ears, then Sten put his foot on the body’s back, bracing it as he freed his sword, yanking the last bloody scraps of gristle and tissue free. The head was finally off, and he growled a single word as he tossed it aside, allowing Warden-Commander Dryden’s body to slump to rest at last.

“Parshaara.”

With that, Sten spun, his form perfect, and broke the skeletal corpse of a Grey Warden into two neat pieces. I spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the floor, forced myself upright on watery legs, and reached for my sword.

A column of flame seared the chamber, the whole place reeking of magic and death, and Morrigan’s ice blasts belched out steam as yet more demons met their match. Did they die eternally, or were they just sent back to the Fade? I wondered, but such questions were best left for another time. I just hacked at the first corpse that lurched towards me, a shapeless yell of desperate fury wrenched from my throat.

I can’t say how long we fought, or how many. The demon that had so long ago taken Warden-Commander Dryden had indeed been powerful, and in its wake awful things surged… not just the endless waves of walking dead—the small, weak demons, by comparison, blindly butting at the mortal world like sightless pups to a teat—but shades, and creatures of fire.

We fought, and held, and the bones mounted up at our feet. After far too long, it was finished, and the roaring in my ears seemed disorientating against the sudden hush.

Cautiously, we began to still, to take stock and gauge the chamber and the hallways beyond. Could it really be over, or was this just a brief respite?

Yet, nothing else came. No more strangled wheezing of rotted bones, no more wraiths and horrors. Panting and sore, we began to breathe again. Hands on my knees, I doubled over, bursts of light dancing in front of my eyes, and fought the urge to retch.

“Everyone alive?” I managed.

There was a chorus of assent, and a weak whimper from Maethor. That got me straightened up, and limping across to check on the hound. He was wounded, a deep gash running the length of his shoulder, along with several smaller scrapes to his nose and flank.

“Here.” Wynne winced as she made her way over. “I can help.”

She reached out a hand and, as she touched his brindled coat, the hound growled softly. I cupped his heavy head in my hands, catching the liquid brown eyes with mine.

“It’s all right,” I promised. “If _I_ can take magical healing, so can you.”

Maethor whined quizzically, then yelped as the mage’s power began to flow, coursing over his wounds. It hurt—I knew from experience that this rough and ready kind of healing did—but he didn’t try to bite or scramble away. I ruffled his ears when Wynne finished, and smiled my thanks.

“Good boy. Thank you, Wynne.”

“My pleasure,” she said graciously, though she looked thoroughly exhausted.

Levi—quite sensibly, I thought, though he seemed to feel embarrassed by it—had been hiding under one of the largest, sturdiest tables he could find. He ventured out, looking pale and terrified, and kept making the sign of the Holy Flame over his chest, again and again, like he’d forgotten what his hand was doing.

“M-Maker’s balls,” he murmured, staring at the mess. “I-I never… what…?”

“Rage demons,” Alistair said, from the doorway. “The… things, with the fire. I’d never seen one close up before. Hall’s clear,” he added, scrubbing the back of his wrist across his forehead. “The other things—the things that weren’t corpses—were what we call shades. Demons in their natural form, if you like.”

“Sweet Andraste….” The trader’s mouth wobbled, that wide-eyed gaze scouring every inch of the room, as if more unspeakable horrors might burst from some corner we’d missed. “Are they all—?”

“No idea,” Alistair said, in a tone that would have been acidly cheerful if he hadn’t sounded so tired. “But, right now, things have stopped hitting me. I’m happy.”

He didn’t look it, or sound it, and as he limped over to where I stood, gazing down at the decayed remains of the very late Warden-Commander Dryden, I could see his face was reddened, and his eyebrows slightly singed.

“Are you all right?” I asked softly.

The others were taking a breather. Wynne and Morrigan sat side-by-side on the table Levi had lately been hiding under, and even Sten was leaning against the far wall.

Alistair nodded, but he didn’t look it. He looked bloody, filthy and weary… and shaken, which I wasn’t quite so used to seeing.

“I’m fine,” he said, uncertainty clouding his eyes. “Just… they were all Wardens once, or most of them. And as for _her_ ….”

He glanced at Sophia’s headless, crumpled corpse, and then looked at me with an expression of terrible sadness.

“I know,” I said. “It’s not… I mean….”

“Yeah.”

I wished I could think of something slightly more inspiring to say, some way of encouraging us to push forwards, but I was empty and wrung dry. Alistair pulled off his splinted glove, raised his bare hand and, before I realised what he was doing, swiped his thumb across my upper lip. I started at the touch—unexpected, and oddly intimate—and he smiled awkwardly.

“Bloody nose,” he explained. “It doesn’t look broken, though. So, y’know, that’s one good thing.”

I blinked. My blood was indeed smeared over his skin and, now I had time to think about it, my entire face hurt like stink. I sniffed experimentally, tasted blood and soot, and grimaced.

“Yuck,” I said, pressing a tentative finger and thumb to the bridge of my nose, and wincing as I gave it a small pinch. “And ow. You’re right… it’s fine.”

“Good.”

Alistair wiped his hand absently on his leg, while I dabbed at my lip and nose with the back of my knuckle, and sniffed again as I peered down at Sophia.

“How old d’you think that armour is?”

Alistair blew a long breath out between his teeth. “Centuries. It’s symbolic, isn’t it? The Warden-Commander’s armour, with the griffons and… well, it’s in most of those portraits, in the great hall.”

“Mm-hm,” I said thoughtfully. “This… or armour very like it.”

I squinted at the back of my hand, streaked with the blood now crusting on my nose, and scrubbed it against my hip. My leathers were filthy enough for it not to matter.

Alistair narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Jus’ thinking.” I shrugged. “I mean, _technically_ , you’re—”

“Wait, what? No! No-ooo… no.” He backed up a couple of paces hurriedly, raising his hands. “Uh-uh. I’m not the one in charge here. And, anyway, you can’t possibly be thinking what it sounded like you were thinking.”

I had to smile at the tone of sheer panic in his voice. From a purely technical perspective, it was true… if we were indeed the only Grey Wardens left in Ferelden, he ought to be Warden-Commander now. _He_ had been Duncan’s protégé, not me, _he_ was the senior recruit… and he was looking at me with a curious mix of abject horror, terror, suspicion, and stubbornness.

Alistair squinted accusingly at me. “You’re not, are you?”

I raised my brows, affecting as much innocence as I could with a patchily bleeding nose and an eye that felt as if it would be puffed up like a mushroom by the morning.

“What?”

“We’re not taking the armour. We’re just _not_. Even if we could get the stuff off her, I don’t want to _think_ about what’s in there. I mean… yuck! Secondly, it feels disrespectful, and—”

“It wouldn’t fit,” I pointed out, allowing myself a brief grin. “Not unless we had a blacksmith on hand to, er, buff out the bumps.”

It was gratifying to watch Alistair’s cheeks start to turn pink, even under the slight scalding he’d had from the rage demon. He cleared his throat.

“Yes, well, it wouldn’t exactly….”

“And it’s disrespectful,” I added in agreement, at which he looked relieved. “And icky.”

“And icky,” he echoed with a slight smirk. “Yes, all right. Good. I’m glad we concur.”

I smiled, and after a few moments we both sniggered. It seemed odd, in a way, to be choking down fits of the giggles while we stood ankle-deep in corpses, but the elation and hysteria of finding yourself alive after a fight that should really have killed you will do that to a person.

Had we decided to go with Levi alone to investigate the Peak, or had I elected to split the group again and leave Zevran to rest his wounded arm, or Morrigan to stew in her usual grumpy fugue, I felt sure things would have ended differently.

And yet… they weren’t over. Far from it.

I sobered as my thoughts turned to what lay beyond the foregate. As I turned to survey my companions, Morrigan caught my eye. She looked thin and fatigued, her pallid skin waxy and dull, but that golden gaze was still keen.

“The mage tower,” she said, her voice a blade of black slate, filled with an oddly angry tone. “This must be ended properly.”

I nodded. “Let’s catch our breath, then… yes. Whatever happened here—whether it can be repaired or not—we should find the answers there.”

Zevran, kneeling on the floor to allow Leliana to rebind his arm, gave a small and eloquent sniff.

“Ah, yes. _Answers_. Have we decided, then, whether it is sensible to ask the questions?”

I shook my head. “We can’t walk away. I mean, if the Veil was torn by the Wardens, then… well, there’s a way to mend it, isn’t there?”

My gaze turned to Morrigan and Wynne. The witch just gave me a withering look, as if she couldn’t care less whether I thought this our responsibility or not, and Wynne had a strange, inward sort of expression.

“It may be,” she said, eventually. “And, at the very least, we should try.”


	13. Chapter 13

My companions, I suspected, thought I was being sentimental, or that I’d been swayed by all those ruined dregs of Grey Warden history. Wynne, quite possibly, thought I was possessed.

I plucked at her sleeve as we straightened out the Warden-Commander’s quarters, picking through the worst of the mess for anything resembling useful information.

“Wynne?”

She looked up from what had been Sophia’s desk, still clutching a sheaf of old scraps of parchment… letters, by the looks of it, crusted with grubby traces of wax seals and written in old, archaic hands.

“Are you all right, my dear?”

I nodded, and edged around the desk so I could talk more quietly to her. Alistair and Sten were removing the old Warden-Commander’s body, still encased in that heavy, liveried armour, and my stomach revolted as I watched Zevran stroll nonchalantly after them, carrying Sophia’s rotten, desiccated head in his one good hand. The dry traces of bile rose on the back of my tongue, and I swallowed hard.

“Mm-hm. The… the demon, though. Why did it…? I mean, why was _I_ …? I thought it was only mages who… you know.”

Wynne smiled thinly, those clear blue eyes ringed with tiredness. “It’s not weakness, if that’s what you’re thinking. Ordinarily, yes, demons only interact with us from within the Fade. To you, it would be little more than a bad dream; but, to a mage, it is a far more dangerous thing.”

“But….” I frowned, confused. “I wasn’t dreaming. We weren’t—”

She shook her head. “Indeed, it isn’t always so. The tearing of the Veil—and whatever else the Grey Wardens did here—has made more things possible than it should have. That creature sensed you,” she added, those long, tough fingers closing gently upon the bundle of papers as she looked solemnly at me, “and it saw your determination. It saw you are the one who leads us. _That_ is what made you a target. Not weakness.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. Part of me was convinced it was a lie, a sop to stop me feeling too sorry for myself. The rest of me was just flat-out terrified.

I nodded slowly. “Right. Um… thank you?”

Wynne smiled again, more warmly this time, though the fatigue still hung heavily on her face.

“Believe it or not, it _is_ a compliment. Although, after this, I confess… I am not eager to see what awaits us in that tower.”

I grimaced. “Me neither. She… _it_ … wanted us to kill the mage. The one that tore the Veil in the first place, but he can’t still be alive, can he? Not after all this time?”

The reasonable assumption—that we had another shrivelled, demon-inhabited corpse to look forward to—fringed my words, and Wynne didn’t say anything to disabuse me. She shook her head, her lips pressed tightly together, and lowered her gaze to the papers she still held.

“I don’t know.”

It wasn’t much of a comfort.

**_~o~O~o~_ **

Little by little, we began to piece things together. The papers from Sophia’s desk included letters—fragile, old, and difficult to read, but clues all the same—from several banns who had suffered under King Arland’s reign.

One, a Bann Mathuin Wulff, had written in desperation, begging for help after the king blotted out an entire noble line in retribution for what he called treason. If Wulff was to be believed, the arl in question had done nothing more than question the king’s spending on his household’s Wintersend festivities, but there were other papers too… and they suggested there had been rebellion brewing in the Bannorn long before Arland turned on the Wardens, and Sophia Dryden dragged them into the mess.

“If Duncan was here….” Alistair began wistfully, but he never finished the sentence, and just let it trail off to an empty, sore silence before he shrugged abruptly. “Well, he’s not, is he? I don’t know what’s for the best. Maybe, if we can make contact with the Wardens in Orlais, or the Free Marches or something, we could start making sense of all this.”

Morrigan snorted. She had picked through a few of the bodies with desultory interest, but not helped much with the clean-up or investigation. Now, she was leaning against the wall, next to one of the cobweb-strewn oil paintings, which apparently showed the Peak in its glory days. All I could see through the thick layers of grime was shadows and the suggestion of stonework.

“Surely you have more immediate concerns than this? Look around you. This place is dead, a ruin. Of what possible use is it now?”

I straightened up from the pile of greasy bones I was shifting. She had a point, but she was still talking about Grey Warden history, about _our_ losses and failings and, no matter how distant they were, Alistair still felt that keenly.

He set his jaw and I flattered myself that I knew what he was thinking, that I could see the outrage and irritation in his eyes, behind the fatigue and weariness. Someone had to step in between them again, I thought. Despite their carping and sniping keeping him sane—keeping him focused on the present when it would have been so much easier to fold beneath the weight of grief and impossibility—we didn’t need the kind of ructions Morrigan could cause right now.

“What’s left intact is sturdy,” I said, glancing at the chamber’s thick stone walls. “Fair enough, it’s a mess but—if it _can_ be purged—this could be a safe place when the horde comes.”

Sten grunted disapprovingly, his presence a dark bulk by the doorway. He smelled of the sour, gritty pyre smoke that was now billowing in the Peak’s foregate. We’d hauled the bodies up, like we did with darkspawn, and set them burning, thanks to Wynne’s magefire, and maybe it wasn’t a good idea to send up a signal that would be visible to whatever was loitering in the rest of the fortress… but, whatever _was_ waiting for us, I supposed we’d already given away our presence.

At that moment, Sten’s virtually tangible disapproval was far more of a worry, and I shot him a questioning look.

“This will be no shelter,” he said darkly, “even if you intend to hide.”

“I didn’t say me,” I retorted, fatigue dimming my sense of diplomacy. “There are villages out there, past the foothills. Farmsteads, trading posts… people who won’t know about it all until it’s too late, if Loghain has his way, and people who won’t be able to get to Denerim. Anyway, I thought part of the Grey Wardens’ duty was to protect people against the Blight.”

“Your duty is to end it.” Sten didn’t snap. He didn’t need to. He just stood there, massive and implacable, and made me feel a complete idiot with his unnervingly bright, unblinking stare. “The peasants will rebuild.”

I opened my mouth, prepared to argue. After all, most of my life had been spent two rungs lower than peasantry… I didn’t like the thought of abandoning people to the ravages of the darkspawn horde if there was something we could offer to help them.

It was a stupid thought, though; a stupid idea. One glance around me was enough to confirm that, so I squared my shoulders and tried to pretend I just wasn’t dignifying the qunari with a response.

“Let’s just get a move on, shall we?”

Morrigan pushed lazily away from the wall and rolled her neck, as if she was stretching out the kinks after a doze.

“Indeed. ’Twould seem pointless to quarrel over niceties before the battle is won. Besides, you may all be dead _long_ before the archdemon even bothers to emerge.”

Alistair snorted. “‘We’ might be? Huh. If _I_ go, I’m taking you with me.”

The smile she shot him was mirthless yet cruel and, for the briefest of moments, I was reminded of the decorative string of limpet shells that had hung in Alarith’s shop and fascinated me when I was a child. Shiny, hard, white things, threaded onto rough string. Just a docker’s trinket, made from washed-up discards, but they seemed so exotic and alien then.

I shook my head. “Come on. Let’s go.”

**_~o~O~o~_ **

We didn’t encounter any more walking dead, or demons, or any other inexplicable horrors as we left the keep and—leaving the central courtyard to the flames and gritty, swirling flakes of ash—pressed deeper into the fortress, and towards the mage tower that lay at its far side.

There were plenty of other buildings: kennels, stables, and what had probably once been a convivial little tavern, albeit unofficial. The amount of broken pottery and smashed furniture suggested as much, though it had all been dragged into barricades that had since been pulled apart, or perhaps burned into one of the many ashy smears that marked the boards.

I thought of what Alistair had said, about it seeming as if Asturian had wanted to make a city of this place, and it felt very wrong to see somewhere that had clearly been so full of life reduced to these befouled ruins. The second tower I’d seen from the keep, that stood to the right of the mage’s eyrie, proved to be nothing more than a crumbled stump, choked up with weeds and fallen masonry. It looked so terribly sad, like the hunched figure of a beggar or a broken statue.

Behind me, I heard Leliana muttering another prayer, the sounds of piety snatched between clenched teeth, and I glanced at Levi. The trader looked pale and clammy, stray wisps of hair clinging to his face as his gaze darted nervously to and from every stone.

“You all right, Levi?”

He looked at me with a mix of relief and sheer terror, and he stumbled, slack-mouthed, over the assurances he wanted to give.

“Oh, y-yes. Yes, Warden, thank you. I-I’m… fine.”

He clearly wasn’t, but I didn’t press the point.

 _Warden_. _Huh…._

It felt much less strange than it had to hear myself addressed that way. I didn’t contemplate it particularly—not just then—but perhaps my back did straighten a little as I walked ahead, picking my way over the broken masonry and swathes of corpseweed.

To me, the mage tower didn’t look much different from the rest of the Peak: just another broken tooth in a corroded jaw, a husk of a thing in stone and rotten timber, standing forgotten at the far end of the fortress. Yet, as we approached it, Morrigan’s steps slowed, and I heard the tip of her iron staff dragging on the ground. I turned, and saw the witch hanging back, looking positively recalcitrant. Those golden eyes were narrowed to slits, her head tipped up as she stared up at the tower.

Ahead of her, Wynne and Alistair both paused and glanced back.

“What’s the matter?” he sneered. “Scared? What happened to ‘this must be ended properly’, hmm?”

Wynne tutted, perhaps readying a reproach, but Morrigan was already glaring sourly at him.

“You are supposed to be a templar, are you not?” she asked sharply, the tautness in her voice only a thin cloak over what sounded horribly like nervousness. “I thought they taught you to sense magic. And _you_ …! You, old woman, who profess to be a powerful mage… surely you are as blind as you are weak.”

Wynne’s face hardened, though she didn’t rise to the insult. It seemed clear that Morrigan’s viciousness was that of a cornered animal, and that made me uneasy. I hadn’t seen her so reluctant to face anything before. At my side, Maethor growled softly, wet nose nudging against my palm. My fingers curled reflexively around his muzzle, and his hot breath seemed like the only thing that was honest and real in this cobwebbed, forgotten place.

“What is it, Morrigan?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even. “More demons? After Soph— after the last one,” I corrected, out of feeling for Levi, who was loitering behind Leliana, looking pallid and terrified, “we know what to expect. We can be prepared. We can—”

She gave me a look of pure venom, the thin light making her skin look ashy and unhealthy. It must have already been heading towards late afternoon; we’d spent the best part of the day picking through the bones of this place, and there would still be much to do before we could take our rest.

Zevran prowled at the back of the group, scuffing at the undergrowth that scrambled over the broken masonry littering the ground. He’d shucked off his sling, and had that small vial of magebane in his fingers again, frowning as he dripped the liquid along the edge of his blade. He peered at me with one eyebrow raised, but said nothing.

“Huh.” Morrigan scoffed, taking a step backwards and sending a challenging glare around us all. “None of you, then? You are fools, every last one of you!”

She was starting to scare me. Wynne cleared her throat and, when she spoke, steel lingered beneath the conciliatory tone in her voice.

“This is certainly a place of great power. It… may be possible that this is the point at which the Veil was torn, in which case—”

“You can expect more than a dried-up corpse shambling around an empty chamber.” Morrigan grimaced. “I feel it. _Great_ power… but it is unclear.”

She turned that piercing scowl back to Wynne, and the mage winced as she inclined her head.

“Yes,” she admitted, glancing at the rest of us. “There are strong enchantments on this place. Very strong. It is as if something—some _one_ —has gone to great lengths to ensure that whatever is within this tower remains, I don’t know… obscured.”

I frowned. That didn’t sound good—and it didn’t sound like the sort of thing a demon trapped in a decomposing corpse was capable of, either.

“ _Bound_ ,” Morrigan corrected darkly.

I couldn’t help thinking of the creatures of fire—the rage demons—or the sloth demon that had ensnared us all, back in the Circle Tower. I had no desire to run the risk of losing myself in the Fade again… no desire at all.

Alistair wrinkled his nose. “Blood magic,” he muttered bitterly. “It just never ends well. Had you noticed?”

The corner of Wynne’s mouth twitched. “Indeed. We shall have to be careful.”

Morrigan muttered under her breath, but didn’t argue. I surveyed the rank of tense, white faces. It would have been easier if there had been some tangible sense of foreboding… even scavenger birds circling the tops of the walls would have been something, but there wasn’t even a crow in sight. All there was between us and the tower—the den of the Grey Warden maleficarum, as if such a thing actually seemed possible, despite what we’d learned—was a deathly, terrible silence.

“All right. Let’s work out how we’re getting in.”

There were two entrances to the tower that we found. The first was at the foot of it, overgrown and blocked by fallen stones and a remarkably well-preserved, entirely intact door, all thick oak and wrought iron. To begin with, it wouldn’t budge, but as the second seemed to be a long-decayed bridge connecting one of the upper floors to the first of the fortress’ outer walls, we decided ground level was the distinctly safer option.

Forcing the warped wood to give way fell to Sten and—as he grunted and strained at the door, shifting the masonry and cracking the old timbers—I squinted up at the great, black shadow of the tower. Like the rest of the Peak, its glory days must have been wonderful. Beneath my feet, the corpseweed and moss shielded paving stones that would have sparkled in the sunlight… and it looked as if there might even have been a well, horse troughs, and some kind of pleasant little courtyard between this and the back end of the farthest barracks.

It made too many ill memories surface, however; too many dark associations. I struggled not to think of the Circle of Magi, with its grim hallways and blood-soaked floors, or of Ishal, where it had, perhaps, all begun.

 _Where we first failed Cailan, and Duncan…._

Silly thoughts, I told myself. If Loghain _had_ betrayed the king, then he’d chosen his course long before the battle started, not at the point that beacon was delayed, and he would have to answer for if— no, _when_ this was all over.

Somehow, it was so much easier to cling to the image of Loghain the traitor, rather than admit the perilous tremble of the ground beneath my feet. _The Grey Wardens who failed to light the beacon in time… who betrayed the king. The order who summoned demons, and rose up against monarchs. Rebels, outlaws, and necromancers…._

“What are you thinking?”

I flinched and caught my breath as the words, and the soft clink of armour fitments, announced Alistair’s presence at my shoulder. The sunlight was growing watery and, when I glanced at him, it seemed that the smudges of shadow it threw over his reddened skin were ground in like ash. He hadn’t been badly burned by the demons—none of us had—but, for a moment, I thought I should have made sure Wynne had healed every last bruise, chap and scrape before we set foot out of the keep. Could she do that? I wondered. I wasn’t even sure magic could take away every hurt. Maybe we were all meant to be left with some scars, lasting or temporary.

I blinked, and flashed Alistair a small, tight smile.

“Oh, you know… just that there always seems to be something bad at the top of a tower. You’d think people would learn to stop building them.”

He grinned wearily. “Mm. Or at least put in some sort of ramp. I’m not looking forward to the stairs. There’s always so many _stairs_.”

I chuckled; he did, too, and the sound was warm and familiar. Odd, I supposed, how he could be so vindictive with Morrigan, and yet so kind to me. Of course, she _had_ been tormenting him ever since the Wilds, but… all the same, it made me think.

When Shianni and I were young—little more than children poised on the cusp of girlhood—Mother had warned both of us about the danger in the kindness of humans, and how it was not to be trusted. Especially not the men.

I hadn’t really understood at the time.

Now, as I watched the sunlight lance at the gold in Alistair’s hair, and those hazel eyes crinkle through the grime, it was hard to deny how grateful I was for his presence, his kindness, and his friendship. And yet, sneaking back through the mists of memory, I remembered the hard-fought battle at Redcliffe Castle, and how I’d choked Bann Teagan unconscious after—in his wild possession—he’d attacked me. I remembered how, as I was gasping and spitting blood and teeth, Alistair had shoved me aside to get to the bann’s prone form, and the recollection of the hardness in his voice as he demanded to know what I’d done sent a small spear of discomfort down my spine.

Oh, we’d all changed since then, though. I knew that.

Everything had changed.

I glanced over to the foot of the tower as, with one last grunt and something that sounded like a qunari swearword, Sten managed to get the door open.

Morrigan rose from the piece of broken masonry she’d been sitting on, the feathers at her shoulders ruffling.

“Marvellous. Into the creature’s den, then, yes?”

Sarcasm dripped from her voice. Beside me, Alistair snorted.

“Got over your nerves, have you? And here I was, about to offer to be a gentleman and go first.”

“Do so,” she sneered, glaring at him. “If we are lucky, perhaps there will be traps, still in working order.”

As a group, we had started to filter uneasily towards the dark hole in the stonework, as if it held some kind of magnetic pull. Zevran was closest, already peering into the ruptured doorway. He sniffed, and pulled a face.

“Unlikely, I think. This whole place smells rotten.”

“Careful,” Morrigan warned. “That _may_ just be Alistair.”

He scoffed witheringly. “Oh, yes! Stink jokes. Great. It’s like being back at the monastery….”

“Well, if the boot fits—”

I winced. It was like children… the high, nervous chatter of children trying to disguise their fears. Glancing to my right, I saw Levi wetting his lips, and he gave me a shaky smile, the look on his face one third curiosity and two thirds terror.

“Are they, uh, always…?” he asked, nodding towards Alistair and Morrigan.

“Always,” I said quietly. “You learn to block it out after a while.”

The trader’s smile widened, but he didn’t look much more comfortable. I arched a brow.

“Would you prefer to wait out here? I could leave the hound to guard you.”

Maethor whined quizzically and cocked his ears—mabaris evidently did understand almost every word—but Levi shook his head vigorously.

“Oh, no! No, Warden… I don’t know what might be in there, fair enough, but I don’t reckon much on chickening out now.” He puffed out his scrawny chest, then blinked and deflated a little. “Or on staying out here if _you’re_ all in there, to be honest.”

I smiled. “Fair enough.”

**_~o~O~o~_ **

Wynne conjured a small orb of light in her palm, and tossed it into the air like a ball. It stayed there, hovering and moving in a lazy circle around her head, and cast a pale, eerie light on the stones as we ventured inside. For all the tension that led up to our entering the tower, however, the first few rooms we found were a complete anticlimax.

All we found were old supply rooms, bare but for a few dusty crates and rotted sacks, and what had once been service quarters, housing kitchens, wood store, and a small scullery. There was a strong smell of stagnancy and decay, but no sign of anything demonic… or even faintly magical. Still, just one glance at Morrigan had me right on edge; her face was tight and mask-like, those golden eyes wide and alert, like a cat, and her lips drawn into a thin line as we poked through the dust and grime. I looked at Wynne, and saw the same wary trepidation. The orb circling her head cast dancing planes of light over her cheeks, and I nearly flinched at the creak of Sten testing his weight on the staircase that led to the next floor.

“Hmph.” He grunted as the half-rotted treads protested loudly. “Have care. The stone is sound, but the boards are not.”

Zevran smiled mirthlessly as he paced delicately past the qunari, his feet barely making the stairs groan. “Ah, it’s not so bad. You see? Light as feathers, my friend. You know, I once had a dancing teacher who said that most of life is learning how to be light on your feet.”

Alistair furrowed his brow as, in single file, we began to edge up the treacherous staircase. “The Crows give all their assassins dance lessons, do they?”

Even from my position at the back of the group, tailing Levi and with Maethor padding warily beside me, I could positively _hear_ Zevran smirk.

“Did I say I took lessons? I merely said I—”

“What? Oh! Er… right.”

Alistair blushed so hard we almost didn’t need Wynne’s light. The Antivan chuckled to himself, and we processed ever upwards to an orchestra of creaks and groans from the stairway. As Sten had observed, the supports—in fact, most of the tower’s basic structure—was fine, but the wooden treads were another matter. It was the damp, I supposed. Left untended for more than a century, and at the mercy of the traditional cold, wet Fereldan winters, it was small wonder the timbers were so far gone. And at least it wasn’t darkspawn corruption… or the boiling, foul messes of flesh we’d seen in the Circle Tower.

Of course, the apparent quiet was false.

The first creature ripped out from a side-chamber, no sooner than we’d begun investigating the second floor. A shade: the things that were as close to the natural form of demons as it was possible to be in the mortal realm.

It caught at Leliana first. I heard her scream in the split-second I was turning at the sound of movement, and then everything became jumbled and confused. There was just the roar of the thing, and coldness scything through me, part terror and part a strange, physical sensation, like the world was closing in around me and bringing with it only blood and pain.

This was much bigger than the ones in the commander’s quarters; more like the things we’d encountered at Redcliffe. I remembered the words of the blood mage, Jowan, about not letting them _see_ you… and the way they were supposed to feed on mortal souls.

We splintered, endeavouring to confuse the target, and Sten gave a deafening shout in his own tongue. The shade reared up, all swirling blackness and cruel talons, with not so much a face at its heart but a wizened shroud of shadows and vileness. It gave an unearthly, rattling wheeze, like the death-gasp of an old man, and I was readying to strike at it when a blast of ice and magic seared everything in front of me, and left blue spots dancing across my vision.

I swore, staggered back, and heard rather than saw Sten bringing his massive blade in an arc that connected with the demon forcefully enough to shatter its frozen form. A horrible shriek rent the air, and unexpectedly solid blocks of ice scudded across the floor—and, in one case, hit me in the shin.

It was over quickly. To an outsider, it might have looked like efficiency, like a well-honed team acting as one. In truth, we had been taken by surprise, and it could easily have gone badly.

Leliana was clutching her arm, blood welling from beneath the bands of her leather bracer and, as Wynne went to heal her, I was aware of Alistair cussing and wincing.

“…even _look_ where you’re— ow! No, don’t _touch_ it!”

Morrigan scowled. “You are a child. It will wear off in but a moment.”

He looked hopelessly at me. “She froze my hand. My actual _hand_. Look!”

He was right. The gloved fingers clenched around his sword were blue and frosted with ice—as was the blade itself. I’d never seen anything like it and, though I should probably have been making sympathetic noises, I couldn’t help my fascination. Morrigan tutted irritably.

“Honestly, such fuss. If _you_ were not in the way when I cast the spell—”

“Well, if you ever actually looked where you were throwing your… your fireballs and whatnot—”

“Oh?” Her glower deepened even further. “Perhaps you would like me to throw one now? That should warm you up _most_ effectively.”

Alistair drew breath, undoubtedly to keep arguing, but his hand was already beginning to defrost. I winced as I watched the arcane ice yield, like the fastest winter thaw speeded up, and remembered the pain of winter mornings as a child; playing in the snow, only to come back indoors to the agonising heat of a warm room.

Alistair’s sword clattered to the ground, and he yelped.

“Ow! _Owww…_.”

He clutched at the hand, eyes watering as he struggled to bend his fingers, flexing them through the pain. The ice had melted, but as I stooped to pick up his sword for him, I saw it wasn’t wet, the way it should have been. It was only slightly damp at the hilt, as if the ice didn’t turn to proper water, but seared away into nothingness, like mist.

“Here.” I held the blade out, pommel first. “All right?”

Alistair nodded, clenching and unclenching his fingers. “Thanks. Is Leliana…?”

He glanced over to where Wynne had now finished healing the bard’s arm, and I went over to investigate, while he pulled off his glove and made a show of inspecting the possible frostbite on his hand, much to Morrigan’s annoyance.

Leliana was fine, though a little sore. Wynne assured me it was nothing but a flesh wound and, privately, I was thankful that demons didn’t spread corruption the way darkspawn did. Everyone else seemed all right; Sten was waiting by the staircase, and I wasn’t sure whether I was getting better at judging qunari body language, or if his posture really did scream impatience.

“We should move,” I said, taking a quick visual inventory of the rest of the group. “Levi? Zevran?”

The trader was looking distinctly queasy again, but nodded and stumbled forwards, peering in alarm at the detritus of battle that still littered the floor. Maethor groaned softly and padded at Levi’s side, nudging his nose into the man’s hand. I smiled to myself, aware of how much the hound’s comfort helped at times like these.

Zevran was the last to file towards the stairs, and he seemed to be tucking something into a pouch at his belt. I raised my brows enquiringly, but he just gave me a small, suave smile.

“Find something interesting?”

“Merely trifles, my dear. Merely trifles.”

“Hm.” I narrowed my eyes as he slipped by me, that scent of leather and oil, tainted with sweat and blood, rising from his golden hair. “Portable ones with a good resale value, I trust.”

Zevran chuckled throatily. “Ah, _meraviglioso_ … so, we are more alike than you think, eh?”

I snorted, and cast one last look around the shattered chamber. It had been some sort of common room once, I thought. Beneath the rot, cobwebs and broken furniture, there seemed to be the traces of old chairs, tables, and maybe even the sorts of curios mages collected around themselves. Zev had a point. It made sense to lift anything valuable that might be worth selling next time we needed to barter for supplies, but this place was so entrenched in filth that I wasn’t sure I wanted to dirty my hands with it… and _that_ , I told myself, was where the Antivan and I were very firmly different.

**_~o~O~o~_ **

Things did not improve as we ascended. Alistair observed wryly that this did indeed seem to the case with towers: the more stairs, the more problems, and it all got worse with every floor.

“…abominations, and bits of… yuck all over the place,” he was saying, in response to Zevran having enquired about the Circle Tower. “And there was a sloth demon. They try to trick you… get inside your head. We’ll have to watch out for that,” he added, the levity of sarcasm dropping from his voice and his face growing taut as, I assumed, he remembered the dreams of the Fade.

I remembered them, too: his, and Wynne’s, and Leliana’s, and my own. They had added weight now, with all the sore, bitter truths of Denerim behind us. I supposed the only time my father _would_ live would be in my dreams, and as for Alistair’s hopes of an accepting, loving family… well, they were as good as ashes. I wondered, if something like the sloth demon assailed us again, whether it would be easier to resist. Maybe, or maybe this made us more vulnerable, and we would fall as easy prey to the seductions of dreams.

There wasn’t much opportunity to dwell on the thoughts. We found more shades roaming the damp, empty upper floors, more wraiths and terrible, bone-chilling creatures that swooped straight at the soul, staring with dead, eyeless faces and rending with claws of black steel.

I didn’t understand how—if they were truly demons—they could be so physical, so distinctly of the mortal plane. I clung, then, to the ideas the Chantry taught: that the Fade was a land of dreams, and that the reality we experienced in our waking hours was the one that mattered.

As Wynne had already tried to tell me, it wasn’t true. It isn’t. Not always. The lines that blur the two things are shifting, ever leaching like the mixing of ink into water. Demons, spirits, dreamers… they all gather reality around them like dust, and there is far more to fear than the simple possession of corpses by creatures from beyond the Veil.

By the time we had fought our way to the very top of the tower—that curious kind of eyrie where, in their natural habitats, mages seem to prefer to make their homes—all of us were bruised and bloody, but Wynne and Morrigan had, by far, given the most. They both looked exhausted, and yet neither complained or asked to rest; if anything, they appeared to be trying to outdo each other over who could press hardest or go longest. They certainly shared a grim kind of determination, all set mouths and flint-hard eyes, wordless and pale as energy flared around them in great, crackling arcs.

If I hadn’t been so busy trying to stay alive, I’d have noted with amusement how well they worked together, despite all their differences.

At the Circle Tower, the uppermost floor had been given over to the Harrowing Chamber, and I remembered all too well its high, vaulted ceilings, and the huge, empty spaces that echoed with the screams of abominations. Here, though, there was no such showpiece. The Grey Wardens had evidently had no need of one and, like the rest of the tower, this floor seemed broken up into storage chambers, sleeping quarters, and rooms that had once heaved with books and trinkets. Everything was wrecked now… and I could see that it was less to do with the unforgiving Fereldan winters, as I had first thought, and more the constant passes of a century of demons, their whole beings centred on rage and destruction. It was a wonder the damn place was still standing at all.

“Look at this,” Alistair said, nudging a partly charred book with his boot. “These are records of some kind, I think. Notes, or… something.”

We were standing in a dim, low-ceilinged chamber. The only light apart from Wynne’s orb came from a narrow window, little more than an arrow slit in the thick stone wall. Overhead, heavy wooden beams lousy with worm were hung with cobwebs, and the smell of decay seemed to be in everything. These chambers had been laboratories once, probably: the rat holes of men of learning. There was a long, low bench near where Alistair stood and, behind him, a rank of shelves. They all seemed less disturbed than the furniture in the lower chambers, still covered with long-discarded drifts of brittle paper and yellowed books, and we hadn’t encountered anything unpleasant since the floor below.

I glanced at Wynne, and found her looking tight-lipped and cautious.

“Let me see that,” she murmured, moving stiffly to Alistair’s side.

We had yet to encounter any trace of the old Warden mage—or his demon-possessed corpse, or any permutation of animated bones—and I supposed Wynne’s trepidation was something we all shared. Everything could still get worse, after all. Perhaps not the most optimistic view to cultivate, but definitely plausible.

I followed her, peering down curiously at the book Alistair had found. It was huge, like one of the massive, illuminated volumes of the Chant and collected sermons I’d seen priests read from on the lecterns in Denerim’s cathedral. It wasn’t filled with jewel-like colours and marvellous words, though, but page after fragile page of discoloured writing. Much of it was illegible—certainly to me—and the paper held several unpleasant-looking stains, but the letters I could make out looked terse and clinical, as if the writer had squeezed everything they wanted to say into some kind of condensed shorthand.

Wynne’s brow furrowed. “They are notes. Notes from someone’s experiments, or… I don’t know. It mentions tests, and here there is a complaint of ‘a deficiency of subjects; only three are left’.”

Her hand hovered over the book, but she seemed unwilling to touch it. I wasn’t surprised. Alistair curled his lip.

“Left after what? And what was whoever wrote this testing? And on who?”

“Blood,” Wynne murmured, her finger tracing a path above a word I could see repeated over and over again across the pages. “‘Blood… and energy’.”

Levi shuddered. “Andraste’s oath… I wish I’d never come here. On the Maker’s sigh, I wish I hadn’t. I’m sorry for dragging all of you into this, I truly am. If I’d ever known—”

“Ugh!” Morrigan sneered. “Will you cease your complaints, you wretched little man? We are here, and regretting it is both useless and foolish. I say finish this, take what may be of value, and leave this place to continue crumbling into the earth.”

The trader’s mouth snapped shut, and he stared at the witch in bug-eyed terror. I supposed I should have said something, but Morrigan had worked too hard and too long for me to reprimand her then… particularly, I suspected, if I wanted to continue living with all my fingers and toes.

“We could,” Zevran chipped in helpfully, “simply leave now, of course. I mean, we have been fortunate so far, yes? We are all still standing, no one has succumbed to horrific visions or demonic possession… this could, if you permit me, be perceived as a victory. So, you know, we could—”

“This must end.”

Sten’s words descended over the burgeoning discussion like a rockfall. He stood near the chamber’s far door, peering down what I had taken to be a corridor that, if this floor was like the others, probably led to two more rooms, most likely either libraries or some other kind of laboratory.

He turned, and his face was set into a scowl of implacable determination. Those white braids, smutted with soot and speckled by ash, hung over the shoulder of his makeshift armour, their colour a sharp contrast to the dark, oiled leather and metal rings of Owen’s handiwork.

“This whole place is an aberration,” he growled. “Let it be brought down.”

I recalled our last night in Redcliffe, and how we had all sat in the tavern, doused in celebration and pickled in cheap, watered beer. Sten had given me a curious insight into qunari views on magic then… he’d called it perversion, horror; a sword with no hilt.

 _As a fish stranded by the tide knows the air, or a drowning man knows the sea, so does a mage know magic._

The words had stayed with me, and not just because I had been so surprised that our taciturn companion could have such a poetic turn of phrase when he _did_ speak.

I’d always been a little afraid of magic. We all were, where I came from, because we didn’t understand it, and it wasn’t a part of our lives the way things like expensive healers and gaudy enchanted trinkets were for humans. The only ways we encountered it were through the occasional mage-child born to elves, who was always ripped away from her family by templars—like the girl whose family lived upstairs from us when I was small had been—or through some scabbed, desperate runaway who might pass by the alienage, hoping for protection from family and old friends. The templars always came for them too, as I remembered.

Still, everything I’d seen, everything I’d learned… everything I owed my life to, a dozen times over and more… I couldn’t dismiss that. Besides, the demon that had possessed Sophia Dryden had tried to barter for the destruction of this tower, and whatever secrets it held. What guarantee did I have that, if we did what Sten wanted and just destroyed everything we found, we wouldn’t find ourselves knee-deep in more demons?

And yet, if the Wardens _had_ done something that had torn the Veil….

I sighed, and moved away from Alistair and Wynne, into the bare-boarded space at the centre of the room.

“I’m not leaving,” I said, glancing around my rag-tag, battered little group. “Not until this is finished. But it’s Grey Warden business. Whatever’s left of the mage, whatever happened here—I want answers.”

We pushed on, down the eerie, echoing stretch of the corridor, and at every shadow I expected more demons, though nothing leapt out of the darkness.

“It ain’t ’alf gone quiet,” Levi murmured, his voice a breathless tremor.

I thought at the time that, for a man such as him to have come this far with us, he was either much braver than he gave himself credit for, or hiding a much more colourful past than he pretended.

“Not far now,” Wynne said quietly, her gaze fixed on the end of the hallway.

I wondered what she meant, but then we followed the curve in the corridor, hugging the outline of the tower itself, and I saw what looked like candlelight spilling onto the stones from an open doorway.

There was another chamber up ahead… and I had never known walking corpses to use candles.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final battle of Soldier's Peak yields a horrible secret, and exacts a terrible price.

What we found at the top of the tower was not the simple eyrie I’d expected, not the cocoon of a long-desiccated creature, drawing dead glories around itself as a magpie hoards tin treasures.

The old Warden mage, Avernus, was alive. He was alive, and still working.

His laboratory, if that was what it was, had definitely seen better days. It was a large, long, stone-walled chamber with dusty floorboards and a low, wood-beamed ceiling. Everything stank of decay and damp and, everywhere I looked, the entire length of the room, there were piles of books, scrolls, and the detritus of experimentation. Broken glass, pieces of piping, twisted and shorn off bits of metal, flasks, retorts and Maker alone knew what else littered  the floor and numerous tables alike. The whole place had a thick, stilted feel to the air, as if it was greasy with time too stagnant to pass, and prickling with coarse, tense energy.

Candlelight pooled on the rough floorboards, spilling from a few large iron sconces at the chamber’s far end, and it threw into ghoulish, fragmented relief the robed figure hunched busily over a long, low workbench.

I heard a tremulous gasp, and glanced at Levi in time to see him cross his heart, working the sign of the Maker repeatedly on the fingers of his left hand.

Wynne shot me a guarded look past the trader, her face hard and her eyes narrowed. I knew what she meant. This was the epicentre of everything, the eye of the swelling power she and Morrigan had felt… and the ‘gate’ that the Warden archives seemed to have spoken of, perhaps. The tear in the Veil, and the portal through which all the demons we had encountered had poured.

The figure at the far end of the chamber—swathed in a threadbare robe that shimmered in the candlelight, his bald head bent over his books—seemed to pause briefly, but he didn’t look up, and didn’t even seem to acknowledge our presence. It came as a shock to me, when he spoke, to find he sounded so natural, so unlike a demon.

“Yes, yes, I hear you,” the mage muttered, his voice echoing against the stone walls. It sounded thin and aged, but without the reediness of an old man, and a scholar’s impatience for the inconveniences of mortal flesh dripped from the words. “Well, you can all wait there for a minute. Don’t disrupt my concentration.”

His shadow stretched up against the wall as he moved, vast and attenuated, and I found my gaze roving the room, trying to understand the complex shapes of discarded equipment. Pushed behind one set of broken shelves, I was sure there was something that resembled a cage. Beside me, Maethor shifted his weight and whined quietly.

To my right, Alistair let out a soft, two-toned whistle between his teeth that said ‘Uh-oh: crazy’, and I was inclined to agree with him.

The mage looked up then, pale and bulbous eyes staring out from a face that—even from that distance—I could see was haggard and thin, stretched like paper over old bones.

“So,” he said, with a trace of smug triumph, “someone has come. Good. There are more of you than I expected.”

 _Expected?_

I didn’t like the sound of that at all but, as I struggled to find some kind of rejoinder other than vague disbelief, he reached for a gnarled, twisted wooden staff that leant on the workbench, and began to make his way towards us.

The taps of the stave echoed on the boards, and the whole room seemed to adjust itself around him somehow, as if this act of movement was an unusual thing. I found myself wondering how he lived up here—if he truly lived, in the sense of the word I was used to. What about water, or food? We’d seen nothing, surely, that could sustain life in this place. Not healthy life, anyway.

My back itched, and the closer the mage hobbled, the more I wanted to turn and run.

“Hm,” he murmured, grunting with effort at every swing of his staff, every step of those withered limbs. “Yes… even now the demons seek to replenish their numbers. I feel it. But, you are to be thanked for this welcome, yet temporary imbalance, aren’t you?”

I opened my mouth—to say what, I wasn’t entirely sure—but Levi got there before me.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” he breathed, his eyes wide. “The Warden mage, Avernus. But… you’re still alive? How—”

The candles guttered as Avernus drew nearer, the _thump-tick_ of his staff and his aged body an odd, uneven rhythm that was strangely hypnotic. A few white, grizzled whiskers clung to his thin face, his robes a stained and dishevelled mess, threadbare and clearly hanging from a frame that was little more than bones. He gave a short, dry husk of a chuckle, bitterly resigned.

“Only just. Oh, yes, I have learned plenty of tricks to extend my life. Magic has taken, and yet given much back to me; such is the way of things. It is not indefinite, however. I do not have long… but long enough for this, perhaps.”

Those bright, pale blue eyes, almost like swollen things framed by rough, rheumy lids, swivelled as his gaze took all of us in, one by one. There were still several feet between us and the mage, and I tried not to quaver beneath his scrutiny, though it left me desperate to take my skin off and wash it from the inside. He seemed to stare right through me, to… what had the demon that possessed Sophia Dryden said?

 _See memories, taste thoughts and hidden places._

It was as if there was nothing sacred to me left, and it frightened me.

Avernus stared at Alistair, head slightly tilted, and he seemed to be considering something.

“Wardens,” he said at last. “You… and the elf.”

Alistair glanced at me. We both knew, I think, how the old mage could tell. The taint sang out, I supposed, and I had never felt so corrupted before, so allied to the filth that ran through this place.

“Why are you here?” Avernus snapped suddenly, leaning heavily on his staff, as if the effort of speech was a terrible one. “What is your intent?”

“To recover the Peak for the Grey Wardens,” Alistair said smartly, the trace of a heel-click almost echoing off the words.

Duncan would have been proud of him, I thought.

Avernus smiled, and it was a strangely hypnotic thing to watch, like brittle, crumpled paper being rolled back, or paint flaking from a door. He had few teeth left, and the ones that did remain were little more than yellow-brown stumps.

“An admirable goal,” he said, moving towards us again with those pinched, hobbling steps. He seemed to be strung together by sheer determination. “But in order to achieve that, the demons must be cut off forever. What you must do is—”

Something about that figure bearing down on us that way made my stomach curdle, and I tensed reflexively. Maybe it was the surfeit of demons and walking corpses; maybe it was the smell of stagnation and decay that clung to everything here. Either way, my hand clenched on the hilt of the dagger at my belt, and my stance tensed.

“Wait. You stay where you are until we have some answers.”

He looked affronted at that, and I supposed offending an ancient and powerful mage was probably a very stupid thing to do.

In any case, the demon that tried to deal with us had wanted this man dead. The archives claimed he was responsible for establishing the gate that was keeping the creatures back. Those were distinct points in his favour… but if those same archives were to be believed—if I could believe _anything_ in this treacherous place, where memory and fiction were so wound into history that they made one great skein of impossibilities—then this was the man who had sundered the Veil in the first place.

I felt the gazes of my companions upon me, most of them probably thinking the very same thing. I could positively taste Sten’s discomfort; he wanted to tear down the entire tower and every living thing this side of the foothills, just to safeguard it from the corruption of magic. Leliana—despite her tendencies towards compassion and tolerance—would quite probably have concurred, given the way she was looking so utterly appalled. Even Morrigan seemed reticent, skulking at the back of the group like she didn’t want to be noticed.

Avernus tipped his head again, looking positively skeletal, like some parody of a bird.

“Answers? To what questions, I wonder? You play for time we do not have, girl.”

I squared my shoulders. “Then I’ll ask quickly. What happened here?”

He gave a dismissive shrug, like the rustle of wind through dead trees. “Hah… you know enough, and what use would storytelling serve? We fought against a tyrant, but Arland is long dead, as are all our noble co-conspirators, and even the grand rebellion itself. Sophia’s corpse may walk and talk, but she too is no more.”

So, he’d known about the creature that had possessed Commander Dryden. My revulsion seemed a little more justified, and my fingers rested on the leather of my belt, just beside my dagger’s hilt.

Behind me, Zevran stifled a quiet cough and a muttered contribution.

“ _Certe_ , she doesn’t walk any longer….”

I heard Wynne hush him, but the only reaction from Avernus seemed to be a slight curl of those dry, withered lips.

“The Grey Wardens are meant to stand apart from politics,” I said doubtfully, aware of the warning glance Alistair flashed me. “It’s not—”

The mage shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand. Huh, you _should_. You’re young… you’re so young, both of you,” he added, looking at my comrade. “We were young, too. Impassioned, angry…. So full of vigour, then. So blind to consequences. We thought we were saving the world. That bastard, Arland, ruled with fear and poison, pitting noble against noble in his treachery. He would have destroyed Ferelden. We thought him a monster, gathered allies to rebel… and we’d have taken him, if that lickspittle Cousland hadn’t betrayed us.”

Levi frowned, and I heard the breath catch in his throat as he almost spoke, almost darting after those lost threads of his family’s past. The mage saw it, I thought, that pale gaze darting to the trader, and there was something of a satisfied hunter in him… the smile that comes when a trap has been sprung.

“He claimed he could not condone what we did for the greater good,” Avernus said, watching Levi’s reactions. “But what are a few little nudges, a few mouths quieted, against toppling a monster? If Sophia had let me do more, perhaps things would have been different. _She_ understood the need to delve into the darkness, of course.”

And there was the bait, disappearing even before I could blink, straight into Levi’s eager maw.

“My great-great grandmother would never have stood for blood magic!”

Avernus inclined his head. “Ah. So, you are a Dryden? I wondered. The cosmos indeed has a curious sense of humour. She was the best of us, you know. Brave, charismatic, fiery… utterly devoted to the fight. But still we lost. Still, no matter. The toll of years has erased our failure, hasn’t it?” He leaned again on the staff, and sighed, and it seemed to me he was trying a little too hard to cut the figure of a gaunt old man. He shook his head ruefully. “It seemed so pressing then, but the kingdom lives on.”

“Not through everything,” I said darkly.

Did he even know about the Blight? Did he feel it? He must do; he was a Grey Warden, like us, and his connection to the darkspawn had been allowed more than a century to mature… which brought home the single question I had been too afraid to voice, even in my own head.

Why was this man, not just still alive, but not yet overpowered by the taint?

I suspected Alistair had been asking himself the same question, but neither of us dared speak it. There was too obvious an answer: Avernus was steeped in blood magic, and if blood magic could halt, or at least slow the progress of the corruption….

I forced myself not to think of it, not to even entertain the temptations of thoughts. It was the same as the keep: the whispers of possibilities brushed across my mind with the tremulous glimmer of silver-gilt armour and pristine legends, and I couldn’t bear it.

Avernus squinted at me. “Oh? So, there is some peril, some terrible crisis. Of course. There always is. But what I have been part of—the things I have seen and learned—they are so much _more._ ”

He was so dismissive that I wanted to argue, to protest about the threat of the Blight, and everything that loomed ahead of us, and yet I doubted he’d even have listened. Maybe he wasn’t capable of it anymore.

“But you _are_ a blood mage,” Alistair said bluntly, finding his voice at last. “Aren’t you? We saw the archives, the records of what you did. The demons—”

Avernus sneered. “Oh, for pity’s sake…. You would waste time on indignation and horror? Yes, I summoned the demons. The first of them, anyway… dozens of them, and all called by _my_ hand. It took months to prepare the summoning circles.”

He sounded almost wistful, and I heard the distaste rolling off the grunt that Sten gave.

“The _bas saarebas_ takes pride in its own folly,” he grumbled. “Kill it and be done.”

I winced. If the mage was as powerful as Morrigan’s warnings suggested—and if he really was all that was standing between us and yet more bloody demons—risking confrontation seemed like a bad idea.

Luckily, perhaps, Avernus simply smiled mirthlessly.

“Folly? Your mercenary may be correct, Warden.”

 _Ouch._ It might the first thing it was natural to assume upon seeing a qunari travelling with humans, but Sten’s disapproval felt almost solid, like ice weighing down the air.

Avernus seemed oblivious, however, and continued addressing Alistair, the way people normally did when they said ‘Warden’.

“Still, it was a triumph of demonic lore. _My_ triumph. Of course, with so many variables, I suppose calculation errors were inevitable. I was so close… so very close. From the moment our battle was lost, I dedicated myself to trying to correct my miscalculations.”

“‘Miscalculations’?” Alistair echoed, appalled. “ _That’s_ what you call all this?”

The old mage shrugged. “The Grey Wardens have always acted by one tent: _any means necessary_. What I did, I did for our cause, and my only regret is that it failed.”

Things were souring, and getting us nowhere. I looked nervously around the room, trying to see some hint of whatever might be holding the demons back. I had no idea what a tear in the Veil looked like, if it was visible to the eye… or if could even _be_ mended, come to that. Maybe the mage himself was the key: a twisted vessel holding a gateway instead of a soul.

“Please….” Leliana stepped forwards, her voice scored with a heartfelt entreaty. “You must see that this is _wrong_. All the evil that has been done to this place—there has to be a way to repair the damage.”

She had the right notion, though I could have wished she’d worded it differently. Avernus sneered bitterly.

“Oh? Evil, is it? And who draws this line of what is safe, proper, or moral? The Chantry? Bah! Nothing but corrupt, mundane, pathetic fools.” He curled back those dry, thin lips in a snarling grimace. “Sophia understood. There is so much _power…_ so much potential! Such knowledge, just waiting to be harvested. The Grey Wardens could have led the way… rediscovered the secrets of ancient Tevinter.”

My stomach clenched on a knot of dread. A century with nothing but demons for company was more than enough to drive anyone insane, but the way Avernus talked felt like it harboured a darker, deeper-bred madness. I didn’t want to think of the words I’d heard Duncan use… _whatever it takes_. But did defeating the darkspawn mean having to become them?

Leliana blanched, but it was Alistair who spoke, his customary sarcasm not doing much to disguise the sour anger running beneath the words.

“You remember how that ended, right? The Black City? Darkspawn?”

The old man shook his head impatiently. “Lies! Chantry lies told to subjugate the mages… to keep them docile.”

Maker’s breath, he sounded like Morrigan. I resisted the urge to glance over my shoulder at the witch, almost curious at how quiet she was in Avernus’ presence. At the chamber’s far end, his few fat candles—and I didn’t want to know what they were made from, I decided—guttered, and the shadows jumped on the walls.

“You cannot know the Chantry is wrong,” Leliana protested.

“And how do _you_ know they are right?” Avernus retorted. “Their faith would have you swallow a great deal for small comfort. No, child… _I_ have stared into the Void. _I_ have held a dozen demons at my hand, and—”

The knots of fear and greasy discomfort that plagued me swelled into anger and irritation. If this kept on, we would be here another hundred years arguing, and the demons would regroup… swarm the whole fortress around us.

“What’s done is done,” I said sharply, sliding my words between them like a blade. “Now, we’ve been cutting down corpses and demons all day… is there a way to seal what the Wardens did, or not?”

Tension creaked in the air. Avernus turned those pale, staring eyes on me, and there seemed to be a glimmer of triumph in his face. Revulsion inched down my spine.

“There is,” he said, his voice quiet, almost wheedling. “I believe there is. I could not do it alone, but you… the both of you… yes.” He glanced at Alistair, then back at me, and I did not like the hunger in those pale eyes. “Blood magic comes from demons. You know this, yes? Naturally, my binding circle can only contain them up to a point. All this time, I have done what I can, yet they were always able to counter every scrap of lore I knew. But the darkspawn taint… that is alien to them. And it has _power_. Oh… such power as you cannot imagine!”

His gaze seared into me, as if he could weigh and test every part of my soul with just that look, and I felt as if the taint within me was responding, rising up like a black tide and withering my flesh like rot creeping across an apple.

I told myself I was being stupid, that it was just tiredness—and the admittedly creepy figure of a crazy old man at the top of a demon-plagued tower—that had me spooked, but Avernus had struck right at my heart.

Though I hadn’t then begun to think of it so, the way I’d felt at Ostagar had started to creep back into my mind. Cast adrift from home and family, and sent into the Wilds with Alistair, Jory, and Daveth, I’d thought then that was to be my new life, my new comrades… my new family. They would never have replaced the people I’d loved, but it was belonging, of a kind, and I would have clutched at it if it had lasted longer.

With Denerim behind us, the alienage purged, and me convinced that everyone I’d ever known was dead, all I had left was the Wardens, my companions… my one, single comrade in the order, and my purpose.

Everything in me rebelled at this shrunken, faded maleficar, his demons and his whispers of dark power. I’d wanted to believe in heroes—maybe even believe that, somehow, we _could_ stop the Blight—and it sickened me to face such a tarnished reality.

“What power?” Alistair demanded. “What are you talking about?”

I blinked. His voice was hushed and hoarse, and I felt a fool for getting tangled in my own revulsion, when I knew the Wardens had meant everything to him. They had been his family, his vocation… and every word from Avernus’ mouth must be like a direct desecration of Duncan’s memory.

The old mage grimaced. “I… discovered it in the months after the siege. There were few of us left, and hope soon dwindled. My research had already hinted at great possibilities… the blood, you know. There is so much power in blood, and what we do—the Joining, the taint—ah!”

Those pale eyes shone with a look of nostalgic pride, and I felt sick.

“The taint can do so much more than allow us to sense darkspawn—that is a mere triviality. Here, in this room, I have uncovered so much…! There must be sacrifices, of course, but then they are always required, are they not? The subjects would have perished sooner or later anyway, and—”

Alistair winced. “You _experimented_ on the people trapped here?”

“It was necessary.” The mage shrugged. “It was vital… and the few meagre years of life they would have spent trapped in this tower were nothing compared to the greater goal. We have always embraced that tenet, yes? Whatever it takesss. I gave their deaths meaning.”

That soft, menacing sibilant clawed at my ears. I didn’t know if anyone else had heard it, if I was going mad… and yet who could have remained here as long as Avernus, in the ravaged wasteland between demons and the taint, and been left untouched by either?

“I have made mistakes. I admit that,” he said, his voice dropping to a coarse, strained whisper. “But you can help me undo the greatest damage I did to this place. I know how to unbind it, how to unravel the sssummoning circles and seal the Veil… cast these things back to the Fade, and leave the Peak safe again. With that done, I shall give you the knowledge you seek… show you the secrets I have learned, yes? The Wardens shall be more powerful than ever. You shall have your prize, win your battles… and I shall atone for my sin. What do you say?”

His head was tilted to the side, withered hands clinging to his staff, and he was at once grotesque and terrifying, every inch of him crackling with the suggestion of power. I looked at Wynne—aware of how quiet she, like Morrigan, had remained—and found her pale and tight-lipped, those clear, bright eyes fixed on Avernus like two chips of sapphire, hard and glittering.

The witch herself spoke then, the sound of her footsteps and her black iron staff echoing on the boards as she moved forwards. Her gaze never left Avernus’ face, her body held taut and upright as she skirted the group, and she reminded me of nothing so much as a cat spoiling for a fight.

He watched her intently and, though I had no magical bone in my body, and precious little experience around the stuff, I could have sworn I felt sparks dancing on the air.

“This is your one chance to banish the demons from the Peak,” she said, her voice a sharp curve, ringing with flint-like hardness. “He speaks the truth there, but—”

“Kill the creature and have done,” Sten repeated, though without any trace of impatience; just as if he was explaining a simple concept to a small child. “It cannot be trusted.”

Avernus gave no indication of having even heard him. He just kept staring at Morrigan, and the air kept feeling thicker.

Alistair shifted uncomfortably, his boots scuffing against the dusty boards.

“What you’re proposing sounds like more blood magic,” he said, his words traced with scorn. “I don’t know if we want any involvement in that. _I_ certainly don’t.”

He glanced at me then, and I supposed he expected me to back him up. I wanted to. Part of me wanted to run the old mage through where he stood, then turn tail and get out of that place while there was still light to see by.

My fingers twitched on my belt, seeking the comfort of my knife’s worn hilt.

“What would you have us do? What is it you needed to wait for?”

Avernus’ lips spread into a dry, thin smile. “Ah… warriors,” he murmured. “You have shown your prowess to come this far. Some have tried… none survived. As I unbind the circles, there will be wave upon wave of demons. I cannot perform the rituals without someone to protect me. Cut down the creatures, give me time, and it shall all be done.”

Alistair made a small, discomfited noise in the back of his throat. “Huh. Well, we _are_ good at killings things, aren’t we?”

I wrinkled my nose and shot him a semi-disapproving look.

“The rituals need no blood,” Avernus added, and there seemed to be a touch of wheedling in his voice. “Or, if you prefer, leave now, and allow this place to crumble to dust. But, when I am gone, I cannot guarantee my spells will hold. Of course, that may well not be your concern….”

Lovely. So, we were to choose between aiding the blood mage and throwing ourselves at pack after pack of demons, or fleeing and waiting to see if _they_ overwhelmed the valley before the darkspawn arrived, or whether the horde would get here first.

The weariness of being confronted with an impossible choice coursed through me, and I sighed.

“All right. You’ve made your point.”

**_~o~O~o~_ **

We followed him right up to the highest point of the tower. I suppose I’d expected some great, melodramatic scene in a vast chamber, like at the Circle Tower, with occult runes and glowing glyphs of warding, and all kinds of magical paraphernalia.

What we got, however, was a long, low room right in the attics, obviously once used as a supply store. Dusty crates, sacks, and boxes were pushed back against the walls, and the atmosphere was heavy, greasy and thick. Energy crackled on the air, and I heard Wynne gasp softly as she mounted the stairs behind me.

“Here,” Avernus wheezed, hobbling to the mid-point of the room, the single torch he’d brought with him flaring brightly in one crabbed hand.

He set in an iron sconce on the wall, and began fumbling about in a bag that lay near one of the crates, eventually drawing out candles that he proceeded to light from the guttering flame.

At first, I didn’t see anything special about the chamber; just the bare stone of the tower’s outer wall, and swathes of cobwebs hanging down from the rafters like silken ropes. The mage was scrubbing one slipper-shod foot at the floor, though, as he began setting out the candles, and as my gaze followed the action, I could make out countless tightly scrawled sigils, drawn in chalk on the rough boards. There definitely _were_ warding glyphs, then, and runes and symbols and Maker alone knew what else… but so many that they were indecipherable, and apparently virtually ingrained into the wood.

The rustle of cloth and feathers at my shoulder announced Morrigan slinking forwards, and she seemed fascinated.

“Most impressive,” she murmured, taking care neither to step on nor smudge any of the hundreds of intricate, bisecting lines and curves. “Some of these I have never even seen in books.”

I took Alistair’s muttered ‘huh’ to be an observation of the fact that suggested she _was_ familiar with more than just the basic principles of demons, necromancy, and all those other things the Chantry frowned so very heavily upon, but didn’t comment. Personally, I doubted very much that anyone growing up under Flemeth’s aegis would have escaped such knowledge, but that didn’t help me feel any more comfortable with it.

“You will assist me,” Avernus said, reaching out and gripping her wrist. “Stand here. You know the principles of Lividius’ _Vetito Arcana_?”

Morrigan stiffened at his touch, and I was faintly surprised to see her obey, after a very brief moment’s hesitation.

“Well enough,” she said, slipping into the position Avernus indicated.

He waved at the centre of the floor, where I could see what looked like a break in the chalk markings. The more I stared, they seemed to take on a fluid, sinuous set of shapes, like circles interconnected with one another, but tied together by great snakes of runes and symbols. The lines wound over and around each other, but it was possible to begin seeing distinct areas within them, worn into the wood and shrouded with years of dust. It looked like some parts had been retouched over time, and I was put in mind of a painter, never happy with his work and always altering tiny details.

Was that what Avernus had been doing here? It gave me indescribable shivers to think of the old man scrabbling around this musty floor, his wizened body contorted as he strained to reach the most intricate glyphs.

“There.” He pointed to the gap I’d identified in the markings. “Quickly, now… they will feel it, and they will attempt to resist. Be ready.”

Fear congealed in the pit of my stomach, leaden and wet. It seemed so ridiculous to be walking into this, and though I told myself we had no choice, my feet were still unwilling to move.

It was Sten who took up position first, striding across the floor with a muttered string of resentful words half-hidden under his breath, and his massive greatsword drawn. Alistair fell to giving out truncated shorthands of command, and I was grateful for how easy it was to follow his voice.

We’d fought together often enough, all of us, to know how this needed to work, but never had we stood united, preparing to face an enemy without knowing from where it would come. My pulse hammered, my eyes stinging with the effort of staring into every dark corner and firelit shadow.

We were back to back, all of us, a rough circle within the mage’s ritual space. To my left, Wynne was breathing heavily, her eyes fixed on Morrigan and Avernus.

“I do not like this,” she murmured, perhaps more to herself than me, though I grunted in assent.

Behind me, I could hear the whispered tail of a prayer from Leliana and, to my right, Zevran was deathly still and silent, yet poised like a snake. Levi stood in the far corner of the chamber, by the stairway, pressed up against the stones and whimpering, his face pale and waxy. I remember thinking it was brave of him not to run and—as Avernus began to chant in that low, rasping tone—for some reason I thought of my cousin Soris, who I’d considered braver than me ever since he showed up in the middle of Arl Urien’s estate with a sword in his hand that he didn’t know how to use.

The first demon came then, and I didn’t even see where it sprang from.

A mage once told me that the Veil is not a static, unchanging thing, not a barrier or a boundary, but merely a way of thinking. To cross it is, some say, no more than a matter of opening one’s eyes. The Chantry would disagree, but that is not surprising, because it would mean accepting the idea that demons and spirits—and even the souls of dreamers—are around us always, and that, just maybe, our mortal state was never the pinnacle of the Maker’s creation, or even His intent.

I wouldn’t profess an opinion, but at that moment I would have believed it.

The creature seemed to come tearing out of the air itself, and I wondered what I’d expected: some kind of obvious portal, something that actually _looked_ like a gateway, perhaps. It would have been easier… but then anything would have been easier than this monster of cold shadows and draining, hideous darkness.

It was a whirlwind of screaming, sucking violence, and trying to strike at it was like hitting loose sand. Wynne cast a bolt of magic directed squarely at the centre of its shifting, billowing form, and it seemed to weaken the demon. Lightning arced above my head—Morrigan, I assumed—and the sound of Avernus’ rough chanting tore at the swirl of weakness that seemed to envelop me.

The things didn’t even have the decency to come one at a time. No sooner had we started to get the measure of the first demon than there were shades everywhere, and then the roaring, terrible heat of a rage demon, fire raining down through the darkness.

I fought as best as I could, taking up a stance slightly in front of Wynne, and deafened to most of the terror of the battle’s noise by the rushes and ripping sounds of her spells shooting past me. I had my two daggers in hand, twin blades too often scything through bodies that hadn’t enough form to be hurt by them.

Oh, some of the things we could kill. They came through, seeking and probing for a way to clothe themselves in flesh, and as they began to pull energy around themselves— _our_ energy, and that of the hundreds of years’ worth of dead banked up in this place—we cut them down, and heard them shriek and howl.

Stories I’d read as a child, those tales from the books Father never approved of and Mother said weren’t real anyway, drifted back through my mind. Naïve princesses courted by demons in disguise, then dragged away to prisons in the Fade, or travellers beguiled by wraiths and spirits, only to die beside their fires, wasting away into the mist… those things seemed more real now than I’d ever believed they could.

We fought, shoulder to shoulder, back to back, blades and bodies in constant motion. Maethor was a ceaseless force, darting between the spiralling forms and, I thought, possibly the least touched by them. Wave after wave of the creatures broke through, but gradually I felt things begin to change. The summoning circles Avernus had spoken of were to be unwound, one by one, and as the first and then the second were unravelled by his rituals—dark light and ancient, terrible words that cut through the air above my head—the demons redoubled their efforts. They were fighting for their very survival, for everything they craved and pursued, but so were we.

They struck at us with all the weapons they had. They took forms that were calculated to terrify—towering pillars of boiling flesh, enormous maws gaping with teeth, giant spiders and scorpions and Maker alone knew what else—or took no forms at all, and simply seeped into the air around us until only magic could tackle them.

By turns, we were fighting tooth and nail for our lives against vicious, terrible foes, and then relegated to almost standing around doing nothing, while Wynne or Morrigan was forced to unleash a violent burst of energy.

It seemed to go on forever. We were all tiring—more so than normal with the demons’ unnatural weakening of both flesh and spirit—and I was terrified that we would either fail before Avernus’ ritual was done, or that we would grow so weak that we could not fend them off. I had no desire to be forced to fight the possessed body of someone I called a companion, nor to lose myself to that fate… or the possibility of finding myself trapped in the Fade again.

It was probably that which gave me the impetus to keep going, and the same might have been true for Alistair and Leliana. Zevran, I worried for; I could see him weakening, his injured arm evidently causing him great pain, and more than twice he overextended himself, almost making foolish errors that could easily have cost him dearly.

Still, we were making progress, however slow it seemed. With three of the five circles unbound, Sten now held one side of the chamber, benefiting from the opportunity to swing his sword as it was meant. He was unstoppable, shifting in seamless arcs between stances, his blade only outmanoeuvred by his anger at the very nature of these creatures.

Light echoed off the stonework, and the crackle of magical energy dispersing against the walls made it through my fuzzy head like a sound heard underwater. My vision was blurred, and bright spots danced in front of my eyes, the heat of yet another rage demon searing my skin. Wynne flung an ice spell at it, though her aim was weak, and the spell itself seemed incomplete. I moved to strike at the part of the thing that was fire turned to solid ice, but it wasn’t entirely frozen, and a fist that might as well have been made of molten rock smashed into my arm, sending one of my daggers spinning.

I cussed, brought the second blade around, and managed to catch a fissure in the boiling, hissing ice that was already turning back to flame. The thing stank like a swamp in high summer, that smell of burning gas and stagnant death, and it howled as it flew at us again. I yelled, its proximity scalding my skin, and struck blindly, only dimly aware of the shades that were diving and swirling around us like vultures. I thought I heard Alistair cry out, and then there was another tremendous flash, and it seemed that the fourth circle was undone.

We were nearly there… so very nearly there. Pain burst in every muscle I possessed, and yet I was hardly aware of it. As the rage demon finally fell to Wynne’s attack, my attention was focused on the next wave of the creatures, and the taste of victory that was so close, bursting like the promise of ripe fruit on my tongue.

It was as the last shade fell, in a howl of dark claws and fury, that I heard Morrigan scream. It was a sound I hadn’t thought she was capable of making—a raw, tearing peal of pain, and true fear.

I spun, in time to see her doubling over, Avernus’ palm splayed on her bare shoulder. Light pooled around them—a vivid, burning corona of ice-blue and purple—and yet darkness seemed to be spreading beneath her pale skin. It was like the sickness that comes in those taken by the darkspawn taint, but it was moving faster… _he_ was making it move faster. He must have been; I could see the wetness of a bloodstain seeping across the front of her robes, and the coiling, liquid tendrils of the blood itself rising from the wound, feeding his power.

The mage was draining her, and from the look on his face—contorted so far past anything resembling human it was as if he’d never been a man at all—he was relishing every second of it.

I ducked beneath Sten’s outstretched arm as the qunari surged forwards, throwing his weight at the demon. The hiss of contact and the ragged, dark smell of burning flesh assailed me, and something like black, feathered wings seemed to be above us. Another wraith of some kind, I supposed, but bigger than the other shades. I felt cold, and the room pitched and lurched around me, a grainy kind of bitterness filling my mouth and nose, like flakes of ash in the air.

Maethor broke from the melee and bounded ahead of me, and I heard Zevran’s rough, gasping breaths at my side. We reached Avernus as the mabari jumped, his trap-like jaws open in a great, fierce snarl, and I registered only that Zev was bleeding as he lunged in front of me, a whirl of steel, golden skin, and scarlet-streaked hair.

Morrigan dropped to the ground, a discarded and broken doll slipping from the mage’s grasp, the black wetness of a bloody wound spreading across her stomach. I grabbed the shoulders of her robes, my fingers locked on coarse, greasy cloth and the cool, ruffled edges of feathers as I dragged her to the side of the chamber. She was heavy, an unmoving, unresponsive weight, and those webbed dark lines spread beneath her skin, mottling the pale flesh. The scream of rage Avernus gave tore through the air above me and, as Levi darted from his place of relative safety behind the boxes and helped me pull Morrigan back, he stared at me with wide, terrified eyes.

“He’s gone mad!”

“No,” I managed, the taste of blood welling behind my lips, “not ‘gone’.”

That left the trader bug-eyed and confused, but there wasn’t time to explain. I left Morrigan’s body in his care, making sure he applied pressure to the wound across her front, and darted back to the fight.

Avernus had already begun to change.

He’d straightened up, staff discarded, but it didn’t end there. He was growing, shifting, his flesh rearranging itself as I stared. Boiling masses of it spilled forth, as if his skin was going to burst, yet his body did not rupture. He just… _changed_ , and I cursed myself for being so blind, so stupid, and so eager to embrace the word of a man who I’d believed was a Grey Warden, as if that meant there was no way he could have been an abomination.

I saw Sten turn, and the moment of shock that lit those bright, violet eyes gave way to sudden, terrible anger, as if the creature Avernus had become offended him right to the very core. He roared, and charged as Zevran went skidding along the boards, the ritual chalk marks and scrawled runes now irreparably smudged. I saw Zev getting up, spitting and swearing in Antivan, and ran for the back of the abomination, already drawing my sword.

Wynne was virtually invisible inside a swirling storm of light and energy. Magic cracked and broke in waves against the walls, and I realised she was trying to complete the unbinding of the last circle herself. We had to give her that time.

I swung my blade at the nearest bit of the abomination I could reach. What had been identifiable as a man was now a raging tower of flesh, the dark flights of the demons’ power surging around him, and every inch of him subsumed in masses of raw, weltering meat. The tattered rags of Avernus’ robes hung from the creature, and I saw Maethor brushed away by one huge, clawed arm. The hound yelped, colliding with one of the shades still roiling in the centre of the chamber, where Alistair and Leliana were trying to provide Wynne with enough cover to seal the fifth circle.

My sword met the resistance of flesh and muscle, and the stench of decay and stale blood washed over me, mixed with the stink of sweat and terror. I could hear Alistair yelling at the demon he was fighting to just shut up and die, his voice broken through with exhausted desperation, and I knew we couldn’t hold out much longer. Whether this had been a trap or a disaster didn’t matter… just that it ended.

Zevran seemed to echo my sentiments as he launched himself at the abomination again, ducking and twisting to avoid the vile, crackling ball of dark lightning that swelled between its talons, then arced out, scorching the floor.

“ _Muori, figlio di puttana bastardo!_ ” he swore, his poisoned blades raking twin paths down the creature’s chest.

Its back bowed, and it roared, only for Sten to bring his sword down in a great sweep that should have cleaved it in two, and yet barely seemed to stun the thing. I drove my blade into what would have been its spine, and those great, shiny pustules of amorphous flesh, bursting from within the ruined rags of robes, oozed with dark, stinking liquid, like blood that had long been tainted and congealed.

Bile rose in my throat as the smell lodged itself deep in my lungs. I knew that wasn’t how my own blood looked—Maker knew I was shedding enough of it at that point to be intimately familiar with its colour and consistency—but the sight of that foul stuff still seemed to burn into me, to whisper things of my future… and of the Grey Wardens’ secrets, long past.

I swung again, stabbed again, landing blow after blow alongside Zevran and Sten. Whether the magebane was beginning to work, or whether we had simply sustained a long enough assault to finally be having an effect, I wasn’t sure, but the abomination seemed to be weakening.

Where Avernus’ face had been, there was now a mottled, disfigured and distended growth of flesh, like a twisted rope of skin encircling the creature’s head. It should have rendered it blind, yet the rheumy, red-hawed orb of one eye was still visible, rolling madly in a withered socket as a mouth with little left in the way of lips opened in an endless scream, showing yellowed stumps of teeth. One claw-tipped hand reached out, catching at Zevran and—from the way the breath choked in his throat, his body suddenly turning taut—I knew the creature was trying to take control of him, using the same vile magic it had drawn on Morrigan’s power, and that of all these demons, to summon.

Its raw, visceral growls seemed to whet the air’s edges, and as Maethor and I were both summarily blown back by a blast of magical energy that knocked the wind from me, even Sten was momentarily unfooted. All the while, Zevran struggled in its grasp, and I was sure we would lose him, perhaps as we had already lost Morrigan.

I heard Wynne’s voice cutting through the rancid, crowded air then, intoning words whose shapes were ancient and alien to me… and yet familiar.

 _The Litany of Adralla._

I’d forgotten about it, but she’d learned the spell back in the Circle Tower, and it was just as effective against the blood magic of this abomination as it had been against Uldred.

The creature howled and thrashed, but let Zevran go, relinquishing the control it had been trying to force into his mind. Sten took advantage of its confusion, cannoning into the corrupted, mutated body and sending it sprawling into the ranks of old crates and boxes at the edge of the chamber. We piled after it, as eye-bruising flashes of light and the sound of magic breaking in arcs lit the rafters. On its back, all flesh and black blood, and the soiled tatters of ancient silk, the abomination hissed and tried to summon one last, vicious spell. A crusted, swollen eye stared at me from above that lipless, snarling maw, and I drove my sword down into its head, all my weight behind the movement. I felt the crack of bone, the pressure of resistance, and the struggles of the creature scything its way through the last of its tricks for survival. Blood seeped around my blade, thick and viscous and dark, and a high-pitching keening filled my ears, the air like wet sand on my skin, the smells of death, heat, and corruption choking me.

Finally, it was still. My head echoed with light and noise, the sound of my breathing ragged and harsh. My sword hung heavily in my fingers as I pulled it from the abomination’s corpse, and that thick, dark blood eased greasily down the blade’s gully.

I swallowed the bitter taste of copper and death, and looked blearily up at Sten. He was grimy with ash and streaked with gore, his white braids thickly fringed with dirt, although he already seemed to be regaining his composure. I envied him that ability to move so swiftly between the vivid whirl of violence and that calm, almost philosophical demeanour of his.

“It would have been well if it had been done quicker,” he observed, looking down at the remains of the abomination.

I nodded uncertainly. “Maybe.”

Perhaps he was right, but perhaps not. It hardly seemed to matter whether Avernus had meant to use us as pawns—to bring the demons to the gate, feed off them as we cut them down, and then erupt into this monster and feed off _us_ just as easily—or whether it had been accidental and he had simply, finally, lost control after a century of solitude and the slow poisoning of the taint, together with all that forbidden knowledge.

All the same, I couldn’t help thinking of Uldred, and what he’d said about mages shedding their larval forms… becoming something greater, something glorious. There seemed to be no glory in this. None at all.

Zevran appeared to share my sentiments. He stood close by, panting and muttering to himself, his lips curled into a sneer of distaste. Blood marked one side of his face, a strange mirror to the tattoos that hugged his other cheek, and a wound on his forehead had allowed a tide of red to seep into his pale hair.

“ _Pezzo di cazzo brutto stronzo... cazzo di merda…_ ,” he grumbled as he eyed the mutated corpse, spitting on the floorboards and then pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. “ _Ahi, la mia faccia! Merda, che fanno male…._ ”

I hadn’t the faintest idea what it meant, but it sounded like an education.

Zevran caught my eye, and gave me a look that would probably have been a weak smile if he hadn’t been so busy being sore and covered in blood.

“I am all right,” he assured me, lowering his hand. “And you?”

I nodded again, surprised by how well I’d actually survived the fight. We had faced scores of demons, shades, wraiths and assorted horrors I wasn’t even sure there were names for, not to mention the blood mage abomination, and all I had to show for it was a mixed set of contusions, flesh wounds and scrapes.

The small pulse of triumph I felt at that dissipated immediately as my fuzzy, worn-out mind returned to Morrigan.

Behind the makeshift barricade of crates and boxes, Levi was still crouched over her pale form. He’d stripped to his shirtsleeves and covered her with his jerkin, his hand still pressing down on the wound to her stomach. He looked up as I approached, his eyes pools of terrified awe and his face clammy.

“Warden! I never…. Maker, that was… well, I thought we was all done for!”

I looked down at Morrigan’s unmoving form. She seemed smaller somehow, her robes spilling out in darkness around her; eyes closed and mouth slack. The swoops and scars of shadow she painted herself with were unevenly worn off, with smudges at her lips and creases ingrained along her eyelids. That delicate, elaborate knot of hair had begun to unravel, and a few coarse, dark strands clung to her cheeks. Her skin had a greasy, waxy sheen, but the threads of corruption I had seen so vividly beneath her flesh had subsided, and now seemed nothing more than shadows running the length of her arms and throat.

I frowned. “Is she…?”

“Still breathing,” Levi said quietly. “I think.”

“Right.” I turned, and forced unwilling, wobbly legs to push me to the centre of the chamber, the tip of my still-bloody sword scraping against the floor as I stumbled. “Wynne?”

She was half-kneeling amid the mess of blurred, scuffed chalk markings.

Alistair was by her side, supporting her arm, and his white-faced look of concern had me worried. Wynne waved her free hand dismissively, as if to say she was all right, but even from where I stood I could see her fingers tremble. Her eyes were half-closed, and her skin was pale to the point of greyness, her whole body bent and stooped.

“I… I just fell,” she protested. “That’s all. Clumsy old fool. Not as young as I was, I admit.”

They were empty platitudes, and I saw Leliana shoot me a steel-eyed look from behind the mage’s head. She was bloodied too, as was Alistair, and I noticed the way he was limping, though I knew it would have been pointless to mention it while he was so clearly worried about Wynne.

“Can you…?” I hated to ask it of her, but I pointed hopelessly at where Morrigan lay. “I-I don’t know what he did, but—”

Wynne nodded grimly and, with a reassuring pat of Alistair’s hand, she relieved herself of his support and went to kneel beside Levi, peeling back the jerkin to examine the witch’s wounds.

From the look on her face, it wasn’t good news.

“Blood magic,” Alistair muttered bitterly, shaking his head. “You know, if I’d taken my vows… they teach templars to counter spells, t-to… cleanse….” He gesticulated vaguely, swaying a little, and frowned. “I could have… couldn’t I? I should’ve… thing….”

I closed my eyes for a moment. Sodding man couldn’t hear an ant sneeze without blaming himself for giving it a cold.

“You fought bravely, Alistair,” Leliana said, taking his arm and guiding him towards the edge of the chamber. “Don’t allow yourself to think anything different. Now, you should take the weight off that leg, don’t you agree?”

“Huh?” He peered down at himself, as if apparently only just remembering that the limb was attached to him, and winced. “Oh. Ow. Yes, I do feel a bit… light-headed, actually. Think I’ll just… um.”

Leliana propped him on a crate and started rummaging through the meagre pouches and supply bags she had hung about herself, doubtless searching for any bandages and wound balms left over after the day’s exertions. He gazed gratefully at her, and a sudden leaden feeling grasped my stomach, twisting and pinching.

I bit the inside of my cheek, swallowed the stupid impulses, and went to see if I could help Wynne.


	15. Chapter 15

It took a while to recover from that fight, and I knew the whole expedition itself would leave its marks on us… very definitively so, in Morrigan’s case.

She had me worried for a while, lying there still and deathly white as Wynne worked healing and cleansing magics around her head, and Levi and I took turns following instructions to clean, compress, and bandage the wound through which Avernus had drawn so much of her blood. Maethor came to lie beside her head, nose on his paws as he whined quizzically.

“She’ll do better once we get her back to camp,” Wynne said, and fatigue made her voice sound thin and old. “But she’s not ready to move yet.”

“How long?” I asked, not wanting to rush the mage, but not wanting to face the thought of spending the night at the Peak, either.

Wynne shook her head. “Not too long.” She glanced up at the others, all still strewn around the chamber in various stages of dishevelled recuperation. “Best to give them time, too, don’t you think?”

A small frown squeezed my brow. I didn’t understand at first, but slowly the realisation kicked in. She meant me to step up, I thought… to be a leader, instead of merely stumbling along at the front.

Awkwardly, I rose to my feet and, brushing my palms together—palms that were smeared with Morrigan’s blood, and my blood, and the detritus of Maker alone knew how many demons—cleared my throat.

“Uh… she’ll live. She’s… going to be all right, but we need a little more time to get her ready to move. We should check the pyres, set anything else that needs to burn, and make one last pass to see if there’s anything worth taking with us.”

Zevran, leaning against the chamber’s far wall, bruised and bloodied and looking thoroughly disgruntled, nodded. “There were some valuable paintings in the keep, although they will not be easy to move. A few books that may have worth… and the armoury may have something intact. Also, a place like this? They will have a cache somewhere. The Commander’s private chamber, I expect. I can check.”

“Fine,” I said, determined not to speculate on how he knew the things he knew, or how experienced he was at judging the worth of an object… and finding somewhere to fence it.

Sten took the task of the pyres, and removing the more fleshly remains that still littered the chamber. I winced and looked away as he passed, the reek of the abomination’s corpse a fetid reminder of how things might have ended differently.

Alistair frowned, evidently trying to hold onto a thought long enough to express it with any kind of coherence. He still looked a little groggy, and he’d refused any magical healing, so Wynne had enough strength to tend to Morrigan. I was very tempted to tell him I was going to relay that information to her when she woke up, but I’d so far resisted.

“What about downstairs?” he asked, as Sten’s weight made the treads creak into the stillness. “The mage’s… things?”

I frowned at the reference to Avernus’ notes, and those so-called experiments of his. It still didn’t seem real. That the Grey Wardens had raised rebellion and courted noble factions in a war was one thing, but blood magic, and all the filth that followed it? I couldn’t accept that.

Or, at least, I didn’t _want_ to.

“Burn them,” I said, after a moment. “No, wait…. I— I don’t know.”

Alistair gave me a look that felt like it was tinged with disappointment. I was sure I’d fallen short of those shining ideals of his, and that he thought I was a breath away from condoning the evil that it seemed the Wardens here had fallen into, but then he nodded sadly.

“You’re right. We should look through them first. Whatever he was involved in, whatever happened… there are centuries of Grey Warden knowledge in this place.” He rose to his feet, still limping, though not as badly, and gave me a thin smile. “I’ll go and take a look. If anyone hears me screaming, come and get me before my eyes drop out, all right?”

I half-expected Leliana to go with him, but she didn’t. She stayed, and took over Levi’s portion of the wound dressing, which he was only too grateful to yield to her.

“Maker’s breath,” the trader muttered, looking down at himself. “I shall be glad when we get back to camp and there’s a bit of a clean up to be had!”

“Agreed,” I said, as I helped Wynne bring the edges of a makeshift bandage around Morrigan’s waist, and the realisation of that—that we had survived, and there was, out there, away from the fortress, a wagon with all our goods on it, and a campfire burning in the dusk—was something potent to cling to indeed.

We had Morrigan’s torso stripped for ease of dressing the wounds, though the nature of her robes meant they hadn’t required much removal, and her modesty was still as protected as it ever was.

All the same, I was fairly sure she was going to be cross when she woke, if for no reason other than the damage to her oh-so-artfully tattered clothes.

As we finished the task and Wynne’s healing began to make those shadowy lines beneath her skin recede, a little colour started to return to Morrigan’s flesh, in place of those black cobwebs and that sickly pallor.

Slowly, her greasy, darkened eyelids began to open, and a sliver of that familiar golden gaze swept the chamber, and lit upon me.

“Wh—” she began, her lips flexing around the dry husks of words.

Wynne put a hand on her shoulder to stop her from trying to sit up, and Morrigan glared at the mage.

“Is it dead?” she croaked. “It must be, else you would not live. Ughhh… there is a foul taste on my tongue. And why am I undressed?”

Wynne gave the witch a tired smile. “You are not. Not much less than usual, anyway. Be still a little longer, then be careful when you _do_ move. You will need more healing. I believe you know why.”

Morrigan let her head drop back against the floorboards, her eyes drooping to half-closed slits. She raised a hand to her face, those long, pale fingers skimming her loosened hair and sweat-stained skin, and bared her teeth in a sneer.

“I am a mess.” Her glare fell on Levi this time. “Go away, little man. There is no more of me for _you_ to see.”

He didn’t need telling twice, and scampered off as she turned her attention to Maethor, who was still laying close by, watching her with his deep, dark, intelligent eyes. He pricked up his ears, wrinkled snout quivering as he scented the air.

Morrigan scowled. “At least _that_ explains the smell. Wretched hound.”

He wagged his tail and made a happy little canine groan, deep in his chest. Leliana tutted reprovingly.

“It’s nice to see you feeling more like your old self, Morrigan.”

The witch gave her a look of pure venom, but she just smiled sweetly. As Morrigan’s golden eyes turned to me, I braced myself for the inevitable cat-swipe, and supposed at least a bit of vitriol proved she was alive.

She sniffed, and fixed me with an inscrutable stare. Her eyes were flat and hard as two sovereigns, and yet I had the feeling that it was less a glare of reproach than a protective shield.

“You… were not as slow to react as you might have been,” Morrigan said grudgingly. “Though you _could_ have moved more quickly. Was it not evident the mage was demon-bound?”

I wasn’t sure whether that was an accusation or a thank you. Either way, it stung a little because, yes, in retrospect it was easy to see. I _should_ have seen it. I should have acted differently, chosen differently… fought differently.

Everything, in a perfect world, would have been different.

“The Veil is closed.” I bit my lip, and shrugged. “He’s dead, you’re alive… thanks to Wynne. We’ll talk more of it later, if you want. When you’re stronger.”

It would probably have been impossible to have annoyed Morrigan more unless I’d claimed her survival was a miracle of Andraste. Still, it did her good to have something to gnash her teeth over and fight against. She and Alistair were more alike than they knew, I thought.

I excused myself and said I should round everyone up before we began to head back to camp. Leliana and Wynne were fully occupied with their recalcitrant patient, but Maethor padded down the stairway after me, down into the long, low chamber that was full of the debris of Avernus’ century of madness.

It was easy to write it off like that, of course. Easy to throw up one’s hands in horror and denounce everything that had happened here, or say that Sophia Dryden and her men had been heretics, aberrations… that they were not what _we_ were, or what we stood for.

As my footsteps echoed on the winding, narrow stairs, and the shadows of the tower parted before me, darkness yielding to the soft, crowded glow of torches and candlelight, I knew it wasn’t that simple. We’d seen evidence of what had happened here, what Arland’s men had done… and I knew all too well what depths the caprices and cruelties of nobles could hold. Perhaps he _had_ been a monster. Perhaps their cause had been righteous.

Perhaps, sometimes, ordinary people needed somewhere to turn; someone who would go beyond what was normal, or maybe even what was right, in order to set the balance of the world back to where it had to be.

Maybe, I thought, when it came to matters of justice and survival, the ends could justify the means.

I wasn’t sure I believed that. I wasn’t sure _what_ I believed, as I stood in that chamber, and shivered to think of the things that had happened there.

The twisted and broken bits of detritus I’d noticed before—a cage, a wrenched piece of metal—now seemed to have much darker significance. Ugly possibilities smouldered in the candlelight, and even the piles of scrolls and books seemed to mock me.

I wanted to talk to Alistair, but he wasn’t there. I frowned, taking in the scattering of books on the worktable, and the candle that had been moved from its previous position, and decided he’d obviously had as much of the mage’s scribblings as he could stand.

I sighed, and headed for the stairs.

Outside the tower, the whole of the Peak seemed to smell of ashes. Fleetingly, I did wonder whether the pyre smoke would give away the fortress’ position, but it seemed unlikely anyone we’d rather didn’t know about the place would see it. The shield of the Southrons had stood Soldier’s Peak in good stead for centuries, and if even King Maric’s rebel forces hadn’t found it….

And, on that thought, I faltered, and not just because thinking of Maric the Saviour—our great king, our idol, our lost and lamented lord—felt very different these days.

Maybe they _had_ found it, and deemed it unusable. Maybe they’d known about it, and thought—rightly enough—that it was haunted, or cursed, or whatever other manner of label normal people affixed to places like this. I smiled grimly to myself. Back home, we had only ever talked about magic and demons in hushed whispers, and I thought fondly of the old folk who would spit at the mention, because we propped ourselves up with our superstitions.

It seemed unreal that I should already have seen so much that I’d never even thought possible… that the insane should so fast be becoming normal to me. Of course, I’d always thought darkspawn were nothing but a myth, a thing muttered about to frighten children, so I supposed I shouldn’t complain.

There was no one to complain _to_ , anyway, and no choice but to buck up and get on with it. At least, I thought bitterly, my background had prepared me for that.

I hurried across the cracked and weed-strewn courtyard, as flakes of ash floated on the dusk-leavened air like flurries of grey snow.

**_~o~O~o~_ **

I found Alistair at the southwest rampart, looking down across the ridge we’d had to scramble over to get here. The first of the evening was drawing in, the light growing soft and heavy, although there wasn’t much of a view to start with, except for trees, loose scree slopes and hills, and the winding pass edged with the broken reminders of masonry. There was a statue nearby, covered with moss and some kind of yellowish-green creeper. It seemed to be a man in heavy armour… the Warden-Commander’s armour, I saw as I drew nearer. His gauntlets rested on a huge sword, and if his face hadn’t been covered with vegetation, he’d have been staring down over the gates like an eternal sentinel.

“Asturian,” Alistair said, without turning around. “There’s a plaque at the bottom.”

I peered at the statue’s worn base, and made out an engraved piece of marble beneath the twisted strands of the creeper. The script was archaic, rather formal, and I probably couldn’t have read it if I’d tried.

“Oh.”

A frown pinched my brow as I looked at my friend. His shield and sword were slung across his back, the harness looking a little the worse for wear, and his armour was filthy, caked with blood and grime. With his helmet off, I could see the tidemark of dirt on the back of his neck, and the greasiness of his short-cropped hair. His shoulders were slumped, his head slightly bent, and his whole posture seemed tired and defeated.

“Alistair?”

I stepped forwards, my boots crunching a little on the dirt and debris. He turned, and it hurt to see that he looked just the way he had in the Wilds, reeling with shock and grief and loss.

Oh, I felt it too: every hope, every belief or shred of knowledge I’d thought I had about what we were meant to be, torn down and turned inside out. For Alistair, though… well, I wasn’t sure. At least, before Duncan recruited me, I’d had a life that was mine, and that I loved. If you prised the Grey Wardens from Alistair, what had he left?

“We’ll be heading back to camp soon,” I said softly. “Morrigan’s awake. And complaining.”

He nodded absently, a faint smile flickering over his face. “Mm. She’ll be fine, then.”

“Looks like it,” I agreed, and there was a tense moment of silence that, another time, might have been filled with his dark, trenchant observations about maleficarum and apostates.

He didn’t say anything, though. I knew I ought to ask him about the mage’s writings. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to know.

Alistair frowned, and looked back out over the pass, his eyes narrowed. As he exhaled, his breath coiled on the cooling air, and he bit his lip thoughtfully.

“They were all about blood. What… _he_ was doing. Experiments. On the people trapped here after the siege, and on Arland’s men. Torturing them, trying to…. The ones that weren’t Grey Wardens died quickly, but those who had the taint resisted demons better. It confuses them, I think, from what I could make out.”

I winced. The words left him like tiny, hard pebbles spat out onto the earth, like just talking about it made him feel dirty.

“He seemed to be under the impression that the way the taint… changes us,” Alistair said slowly, still squinting out at the hillside, “can be harnessed, and not just for sensing darkspawn.”

My feet scuffed the mossy ground as I stepped closer, coming to stand beside him. I leaned my arms on the rough, worn stonework of the rampart, and realised just how much my body ached… and just how much there was that was foreign, beating in my veins.

“Well,” I said, wetting my lower lip, though my tongue felt dry, and I could still taste ashes on the air, “we know it does _change_ you.”

He grunted, and I thought of how hard he’d tried to be kind when he broke the news to me, told me those things that new recruits were meant to hear gently. The spectre of my early death didn’t seem so bad at that moment, and I supposed that was one thing to be said for facing peril at every turn, the way we seemed to be fated to do. Thirty years or thirty days: it didn’t matter, when I was getting so very used to looking down the wrong end of a blade at unexpected moments.

“It’s different, though,” Alistair said, a strained rasp on the air.

We’d missed the sunset. There was no puffy, gilded rank of rose and golden clouds, no veins of purple threading through the deepening sky. It was just an overcast, dim, and rather clammy evening.

“He wrote that the Wardens he…. That they resisted the demons, and that the blood magic he used made them stronger, made them capable of withstanding the taint’s other effects. For a time, anyway.”

I suppressed a shudder, and frowned down at the stone blocks of the rampart beneath my fingers.

“That’s how he stayed alive so long?”

Moss and thin, tiny-leaved creepers swathed the stone, and I picked half-heartedly at the weeds, until their juice bled onto the fingertips of my glove. Beneath the plant life, the bones of the fortress were solid enough. The stones were still intact, and still solid, whatever had grown over them. If all that could be cleared away, like the briars and corpseweed that had choked the courtyards, maybe the Peak could be brought back to its old glory… or had the roots gone too deep to be pulled up without damaging anything?

I thought fleetingly of the vhenadahl, standing at the centre of the alienage and spreading out with roots and branches alike, holding us all cupped in its shadows. The roots used to break up from beneath the packed dirt in the square sometimes, make it crack and split open, and there always seemed to be some slight meaning in that; the roots of our old ways, our traditions, easing their way into unexpected corners of life.

Father used to say, when there was last a purge, the soldiers tried to burn the tree. It had survived… and I wondered if it still stood.

“I think so.” Alistair nodded. “He used the taint to feed off the demons, even after he couldn’t control them any longer. It’s blood magic, but— I don’t know. I couldn’t make out a lot of it, but it makes me wonder… I mean, the Joining… what if that’s—?”

His voice dropped to a whisper, and I didn’t want to think about it any more than he did. All of us, when we drank from that cup: unknowing collaborators, unwilling victims…. For a moment, I could feel the coolness of chased silver beneath my fingers, and I shook my head slowly.

“No. At Ostagar, the Circle mages were involved in preparing the ritual, weren’t they? I remember Duncan saying something about that. They wouldn’t have—”

“Oh, right, and there were no blood mages in the Circle Tower,” Alistair said mordantly.

I shot him a sidelong glance. I was prepared to be the punching bag for his disillusionment, if he needed it, but he was already pulling back on that bitter frown. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and he looked guiltily at me.

“Sorry. It’s just… I can’t believe Warden-Commander Dryden allowed it to happen. I mean, this whole place, it’s not what I expected. Asturian,” he added, with a glance over his shoulder, as if the statue behind us might really be able to overhear, “building this whole— well, it’s like a fortified town.”

I didn’t really understand the undercurrent of outrage in Alistair’s voice, and I shrugged.

“Armies need food. Soldiers need rest. If there were going to be any number of Wardens here… recruits, training grounds, then—”

“I know, I know.” Alistair shook his head irritably. “It’s not that so much as…. Ugh, it’s hard to explain. You know what they say about Weisshaupt, don’t you?”

I gave him a blank look and cleared my throat. “Really only what Duncan told me. Maybe a few stories: fortress of white rock, deep in the Anderfels, home of hard-bitten, heroic warriors who conquered the First Blight. That’s about it.”

Alistair exhaled sharply and stared out at the darkening pass again, chewing the inside of his cheek. I got the feeling my ignorance was a bit of a trial… and also that his studies of history were probably more in-depth than any of us—especially Morrigan—gave him credit for.

“Some people say,” he said softly, as I watched the shadows play along the outline of his profile, “that the Grey Wardens effectively rule there, that over the centuries they’ve grown… accustomed to the power that the threat of Blights gives them.”

 _Oh_.

I suspected I could see the direction this was heading in, but I didn’t say anything. Alistair spoke quietly, turning wistfully solemn as he touched recollections he’d evidently held close for some time.

“Duncan told me that, not long after my Joining. He said power can corrupt all men, and that it’s only by remembering our true purpose that we avoid falling to the shadow of greed. All this….” He glanced back over his shoulder, towards the courtyards, the keep and the towers that rose up behind us, black against the softening sky. “We’re not meant to be rulers, not meant to have a part in nobles’ squabbles, or… or any of that. What Commander Dryden did—what she _allowed_ to be done here—I never thought it could happen in Ferelden.”

The silence that lapped at the edges of his words was deep and thick, and I wasn’t sure how to fill it. Nothing would come remotely close to holding a candle to any words of Duncan’s, anyway, no matter what I said.

“They believed they were doing the right thing,” I hazarded. “At the time. Maybe that’s all anyone can say.”

“Nothing excuses the things they did,” Alistair muttered. “Nothing—”

“I know,” I said quietly. “But—”

“I mean, raising a rebellion against the king… even if he _was_ a tyrant.” His voice started to rise in pitch as the memories of Duncan subsided; or maybe it was those memories that _made_ him sound so petulant and outraged. “It’s completely against everything the Grey Wardens have ever stood for! It’s—”

“Not that different to what we plan on doing to Loghain.”

 _Whoops._

I all but clapped a hand over my mouth. Stupid…. I hadn’t meant to say it aloud; it just slipped out, and Alistair gave me a look of sour reproach, as if my words were a betrayal. I stood my ground, though, refusing to blush, or wince, or look away, even though I might have wished I hadn’t said it.

He sighed heavily, his reprove fading to a tired kind of resignation.

“Hmm. Can’t say I’d thought of it that way… but I suppose you have a point.” He shrugged despondently. “Maybe Commander Dryden and her mage were right. Maybe that’s really what ‘whatever it takes’ means.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. You don’t really think that, do you? You think Duncan thought that, when he agreed to come back here?”

It was a low blow, but the man’s name had been bandied around anyway, even if using it the way I did felt like invoking some kind of sacred word.

“No.” Alistair shook his head. “I don’t know. I just….”

“I know,” I said soothingly. “Still, there _is_ another way to look at it.”

“Oh?”

He raised his brows, as if daring me to say something that made any of this all right, though he looked too tired to really care much for an argument. The dull thread of a breeze, laden with pyre ash and the staleness of decay, drifted across the stones, and it ruffled my lank, unwashed hair.

We all needed the filth of that place scrubbed away.

“What happened here resulted in the Grey Wardens being banished for decades,” I said, tilting my head and waiting for Alistair to meet my eye. “What Duncan was doing was bringing them _back_. New… better. Cleaner. If you and I are the only ones left, we don’t have to be like Dryden’s people were. We can do it a different way. We can _be_ different.”

Alistair blinked, and the shadows that clung to his face seemed to soften.

“Duncan would have wanted that,” I said quietly. “Don’t you think?”

He swallowed, and nodded. “Mm-hm.”

“Well, then.” I squeezed out a small, tired smile. “Come on. We should head back while there’s still light to see by.”

Alistair nodded glumly, and then shot me a small, shy look.

“Thank you.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“For talking me down. Again.” The corner of his lips twitched into a self-deprecating little smirk. “Guess I can always count on you for that, can’t I?”

“Always.” My smile widened a bit. “I mean, not everyone can be good with witty one-liners, after all. Has to be something I’m good for.”

He snorted and, as he turned, heading back towards the centre of the fortress, he passed close to me, and his hand landed heavily—warmly—on my shoulder. It was only a small, fleeting contact, but it felt real.

**_~o~O~o~_ **

So, it was over. Soldier’s Peak, for good or ill, was free of demons, abominations, horrors, and walking dead. Avernus—whatever he had been—was gone, and it was as if a cloud had begun to lift from the fortress, allowing the thinning evening light to touch the stones for the first time in a century.

Unfortunately, the place was a complete mess, and Maker alone knew what it would take to get the place serviceable again. We were patched up and ready to leave, but the Peak itself was far from healed. The grittiness of pyre smoke still stained the air, and there was much to be cleared away… there were possibilities, though, however narrow and tenuous they seemed. I clung to that thought, and the hope that, maybe, it made everything we’d gone through worthwhile.

As we left the fortress behind us, making our weary progress back towards the scree slopes and dusk-cloaked foothills of the Southrons, Levi was already talking excitedly about bringing the forge back into use. His cousin, the master smith, had been looking for somewhere to set up shop, and it seemed he had a wide-ranging, sprawling family that could be pressed into service in re-establishing the Peak… or so he said.

I was amazed, after everything he’d seen there, that he was prepared to countenance the idea but, when I expressed my surprise, he just sucked his teeth and said ‘needs must in times like these, Warden’. I suspected there was more to it than that, but I was too tired to ask any more questions.

It felt like a longer walk back than it had on the way out. We could, I suppose, have stayed at the Peak overnight, and passed a few hours’ rest somewhere with a roof, which would have been quite a change. Unsurprisingly, though, no one suggested it.

It was late when we scrambled back through the ridges and scree-slopes, and made our return to the camp. Bodahn welcomed us effusively, and Maethor bounded right up to Sandal and licked the boy’s face in between excited woofs.

“Ooh! Smelly doggy!” Sandal observed, though he ruffled the dog’s ears and giggled.

I thought ruefully of Father, fussing every time we played with a stray dog in the alienage, in case someone got bitten or the creature had some kind of disease. Not that Maethor would have ever been anything but gentle with the boy… it was just the amount of dried blood caking his fur, and no doubt the tang of it still on his breath, that I worried about. It didn’t seem to bother Sandal, though, so I let them be.

We fell back to our normal routines with strange ease, given everything that had passed. Sten went to gather wood to bank up the fire, which Wynne insisted Morrigan settle in front of while her rough and ready bandages were inspected—she had walked back unaided, healed enough to stand, though she looked terrible—and Leliana went to help prepare supper.

Bodahn bustled and clucked like a mother hen, emptying out all the medical supplies and potentially useful bits and pieces he had on his cart, while Levi recounted the bones of what had happened.

I had no wish to hear it again, so I decided to make a quick round and see how our various injured parties were doing.

Zevran was emerging from his tent as I crossed the camp, dressed in loose breeches and a linen shirt the colour of clotted cream. He had a thick brown cloak over one arm, and was muttering to himself as, head cocked to the side, he refastened the thin braid drawn from his temple, and looped it to the back of his head. Most of the blood had brushed out of his hair, by the look of it, and he’d managed a wipe down with a cloth, though water was not as plentiful as any of us needed it to be. The scrapes and swellings on his face spoke of bruises to come tomorrow, but I supposed I didn’t look any better.

“Ah.” He nodded graciously to me. “Our victorious battle maiden approaches.”

I pulled a face. “Just wanted to see if you were all right.”

He arched his back slightly, like a cat stretching itself out, his hands pressed to the curve of his waist, and wrinkled his nose.

“Mmm… I have survived worse. But, I admit,” he added, peering up with distaste at the foothills and stands of scrubby trees fringing our camp, “not usually in such cold, harsh climates.”

I chuckled, thinking of the chilly southern winds that had torn through Ostagar and the Korcari Wilds. We weren’t far enough down country now for anything like that kind of cold dankness, but there _was_ , of course, all the promise of a freezing, wet, muddy Fereldan winter on the way.

“Don’t like Fereldan weather, then?” I teased, arching a brow.

Zevran shrugged. “This is a fine country, with its dogs and its mud,” he said mildly, those amber eyes hooded as he gazed at me. “And, yes, the people are spirited… even if they can’t tell the difference between an assassin and a mere killer.”

“But you miss Antiva,” I suggested, choosing to let the jibe slide.

He smiled, and it was the worn, weary smile of Zevran actually finding something amusing, instead of that pretty, predatory curve he used when he was teasing. It passed quickly, but it was nice to see it.

“Antiva is… substantially warmer,” he admitted, shaking out the cloak he’d been carrying and draping it around his shoulders. “‘It rains often, but the flowers are always in bloom,’ as the saying goes.”

I glanced at the workmanship of his cloak. The leather fastenings and neatly sewn lining indicated quality, like the rest of his gear—even his tent was nicer than the ones we’d been given when we left Redcliffe—but I couldn’t make up my mind as to whether I thought he’d bought the things he owned, or stolen them.

“Hmm. And so are the assassins, right?”

He laughed softly—an almost disparaging sound—and tutted as he shook his head.

“My, such cynicism in one of such youth! Ah! Every land has its assassins. Some are simply more open about their business than others, no?”

I wondered if, in Antiva, an elf striding around in ornately tooled armour and carrying as intricate a collection of weapons as Zevran did was a common sight. I didn’t really like to ask, as I suspected it was a Crow thing, not an elven thing… and, that being the case, very few people who actually _saw_ said elf got much opportunity to reflect on it afterwards.

It was almost easy to forget how lucky we’d been. More so, how lucky _I_ had been. An inch either way, and the man I was standing and talking to could have been my murderer.

My gut told me to believe in the vow of fealty Zevran had given me—and, Maker knew, he’d risked his life since for me, and for Wynne, and that should mean something—but it was still hard to adjust.

Zevran seemed to pick up on the unease of my thoughtful silence, for he drew the laces of his cloak tight with a flourish, and took a deep breath, as if savouring some distant recollection.

“Hmm. You know what is most odd? We speak of my homeland, and for all its wine and its dark-haired beauties and lillo flutes of the minstrels… I miss the leather the most.”

“Oh?” I peered warily at him. “Wait, is that some kind of euphemism?”

Well, you never did know with Zevran.

“Ah, very good!” He gave a warm, throaty laugh, and amusement danced in those amber eyes. “It may as well be, I suppose… but not this once, no. I mean the smell. You see, for years I lived in a tiny apartment nearAntivaCity’s leather-making district, in a building where the Crows stored their youngest recruits. Packed us in like crates, in fact.”

I nodded, the distant glistening of realisation pricking at the edges of my mind. ‘Poor as a chantry mouse’ was the way he’d described it, wasn’t it? All the money, the wealth and the favours… they went to the Crows, not the assassin himself. He was an expendable commodity, and I supposed, when you boiled it down, for all Zevran’s expansive charm, his bright and glittering life was just another kind of servitude.

I hadn’t thought of it that way before.

“There was a tannery back home,” I said, stumbling a bit over an effort at commonalities. “Near the east gate. Stank something awful, especially when the sun hit the vats.”

Zevran smiled. “True, it is a… piquant odour, yes? Still, I grew accustomed to the stench, even though the humans complained of it constantly. To this day, the smell of fresh leather is what reminds me most of home, more than anything else.”

He was still smiling, still keeping things light and simple, though I heard the subtle ache in his voice. Heard it, and knew it, right down to the bone. I wondered if it was the blows to the head that had inspired him to share this little revelation… or maybe I was just scalded into thinking that way by how easy it was to feel that we shared something then; that he understood.

“You sound as if you’ve been away from home forever,” I said quietly.

He shrugged. “It’s not so long. But I had never left Antiva before, and… yes, I suppose it is the thought of never returning which makes me think of it so often.”

Over by the fire, Wynne had finally finished with Morrigan, much to the witch’s loudly exclaimed relief. I knew, if I glanced over my shoulder, I’d see them all there, painted in the flickering orange and gold of the firelight, with the wagon’s bulk a comfortable backdrop between our little sanctuary and the shadows beyond.

Zevran looked steadily at me, the dark curves of his tattoos shading one cheek, and the thin lines of bloodied wounds, healing to scabs already, marking the planes of forehead and his other cheekbone. Neither side of that mirrored image, though, detracted from the cool amber of his eyes, and all the ruthless assessment in them.

It was, I supposed, useless to pretend.

“Mm.” I blinked, looking down as I scuffed my boot in the dirt, dampened with the evening dew. “Knowing it isn’t there to go back to is hard. That everything is… gone. Still,” I added, raising my head with a sniff. “You can go back, can’t you? Some time.”

“Maybe,” he said doubtfully. “If I was to evade the Crows. But… who knows, eh? I suppose this teaches us to live in the moment, as they say.”

I smiled weakly. A small condolence, and a fairly empty one, at that. Not that I should have expected much different from someone like him, who’d never had the luxury of family, and had been so dismissive of our alienages.

Zevran smirked, and shook his head, as if recalling something amusing.

“You know,” he said, with the faint air of conspiracy, “before I left, I was tempted to spend what little coin I possessed on a pair of boots I spotted in a store window. Finest Antivan leather, perfect craftsmanship…. I thought to myself, ‘Ah, Zevran, you can buy them when you return as a reward for a job well done!’ Of course, I was a fool to leave them.”

He shook his head again, ruefully this time, and I was fairly sure that impulse shopping sprees weren’t what most people meant by living in the moment, but I was distracted from saying so.

“Hmm.” I narrowed my eyes. “If I remember correctly, the job was killing me, wasn’t it?”

Zevran looked very briefly chastened—although not seriously so—then flashed me a pearly smile. “You are not going to keep bringing this up, are you? Honestly, one little flesh wound between friends… but, yes, that was it. More the fool I, no? Both for leaving the boots, and assuming so formidable a woman as yourself would be so easily dispatched.”

And there he was, playing again, all swaddled up in a clean shirt and a thick cloak, with that droll little curl to the corner of his mouth, like a smile kept in waiting, just as easy to unsheathe as one of his daggers. If it hadn’t been for the points on his ears, I’d have thought he looked like some kind of merchant prince.

“Still, such is life,” he said, with a languorous flex of his shoulders, too sinuous to be a shrug. “One simply never knows what is to come next. How could I have suspected I would end up defeated by a beautiful Grey Warden, a woman who then spares my life? I could not.”

Well, I hadn’t been expecting _that_ one, even if the shine in his eyes told me not to take it seriously.

“Beau—?” I snorted, not even dignifying the word with a proper repetition.

Zevran glanced unashamedly at my figure, still clad as I was in muddy, blood-spattered leathers, with ash and grease plastering my hair to the back of my neck and my face. His gaze travelled slowly over me, toe to… well, what little bosom I had, and his lips pursed into a considering pout.

“You have your charms, my dear. And, well, there is a great deal to be said for a woman who looks as if she doesn’t mind messing up her hair a little, no?”

I stared at him, trying desperately to think of some snappy retort before the blush that threatened to crest my cheeks actually did so. It was not a battle I was likely to win.

“That,” he went on, evidently enjoying himself, “and the rather charming aura of… innocence you exude. Deadly and demure. It is a fascinating combination. ”

“I…. You— I mean, that’s not—”

There had been wittier rejoinders in the history of conversation. Zevran just laughed throatily, and the blush crashed over me, roasting me shamelessly upon its open coals. I wouldn’t have minded the flirtation—we'd had enough cheeky sods among the boys back home—but it was the sense that he was playing with me that left me confused and slightly irritated… largely because I got the feeling that, for him, the game had very different rules.

I mumbled some sort of excuse and stomped off in the direction of my tent, grateful for the night’s cool darkness. The smell of stew was beginning to tug at the air and, as I crossed the camp, I passed Alistair, apparently en route to coming to find me. He stopped, blinked a bit, and looked faintly embarrassed before heading back towards the fire.

Maker only knew what he thought Zevran had said to me.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the last chapter of Vol.3, Meri and Alistair negotiate some complex territory, and Wynne tells a story. Yes, it has griffons in it. First chapter of Vol. 4 coming soon!

It was a relief to shuck off at least some of my armour and, as I fumbled with buckles and strappings, my aching muscles and weak, sore hands protesting every movement, I thought wistfully of the little wooden tub before our fire back home, filled with hot water and with half a cake of soap sitting beside it. Father always used to let me take first dip, and Shianni and Soris would often come round to take their turns for bathing night. I could almost hear my cousin’s laughter, and see the firelight glimmering on her red hair.

They wouldn’t ever leave me, I thought. Those memories. All I had left of home, and so I wrapped them up and hid them away, and let the chilly night air and the smell of the trees and the hillsides seep back in around me. Cold comfort, but safer than allowing myself to wander too long in might-have-beens.

After I’d tidied myself up as best I could, I ducked out from my tent again, respectable and relatively clean in breeches and padded jack. The others were starting to gather near the fire; I saw Alistair there, along with Zevran, and Levi, still talking animatedly. Maethor and Sandal were curled up together, basking in the warmth of the flames and, as I watched them, I almost missed the heavy footfalls behind me that spoke of another’s approach.

I turned, and nodded respectfully at Sten. He just glowered down at me, and I wondered what I’d done wrong in his eyes this time.

He’d obviously been cleaning himself up too, though being dressed in the ragged clothes he’d had since Lothering didn’t make him any less intimidating. The evening was overcast, and the thin shreds of light that seeped through the clouds—the moon must already have risen, I supposed—touched his braids in a strangely sharp way, making them look clean and white as fish bones, highlighted against the breadth of his dark shape.

“You look like a woman,” he said shortly.

I glanced reflexively at my jack and breeches. I didn’t… not any kind of woman we had where I was from, anyway. He might have meant it relatively, perhaps, only I didn’t think my appearance of femininity had really increased over the past couple of days.

“Er… thank you?” I hazarded.

Sten did not look amused. He folded his arms across his chest, the movement slow and decisive, like the turning of a millwheel.

“You are a Grey Warden. It follows that you cannot be a woman.”

I frowned. “I don’t think that’s true. The order allows women, just like the army does. In fact—”

“Women are priests, artisans, shopkeepers, or farmers,” he said, blunt as a whetstone, his voice low and his tone brooking no argument of any kind. “They don’t fight.”

My frown deepened. Was he suggesting I had been a hindrance at the Peak? I distinctly recalled doing quite a lot of fighting, and doing it well—at least given the fact I’d never had the formal combat training he, or Alistair, or even Zevran or Leliana had received. It raised my hackles to think I was being told otherwise. However, if I had learned one thing since having the qunari travelling with us, it was that outright argument got one nowhere with him.

So, I just cocked my head to the side and listened, waiting for whatever it was Sten intended to say. His glower shifted like the grating movement of a rock face, and became a full-blown scowl.

“It makes no sense for women to wish to be men.”

 _Ah_. I started to see what he meant, and I crossed my arms, mirroring his gesture, my feet planted firmly apart.

“Then women cannot fight, because only men fight? It’s their role, and theirs alone?”

“Exactly.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “But don’t any of the qunari ever want to change their lot in life? Choose something different?”

Those violet eyes narrowed, but Sten answered almost at once, as if the question was ridiculous enough to need virtually no thought.

“Why? A person is born: qunari, or human, or elven, or dwarf. He doesn’t choose that. The size of his hands, whether he is clever or foolish, the land he comes from, the colour of his hair. These are beyond his control. We do not choose, we simply are.”

A soft breeze rippled through the trees that shielded our camp, and I thought I heard the suggestion of night birds rustling among them. The smell of pines and bracken made the air seem sharp and crisp… with maybe just a hint of coming frost.

“Isn’t it what you make of it that matters?” I asked, genuinely curious to know how Sten’s people thought in that respect. “I mean, plenty of people change their lives. Look at Levi: his family was nobility once, and now he’s a trader, but he’s done everything he could to assist the Grey Wardens.”

Not the brightest example I could have chosen, I supposed, but I knew why I’d thought of it.

 _We can do it a different way. We can_ be _different._

Sten made a small, irritated noise in the back of his throat.

“This is what is wrong with this country,” he grumbled. “No one has a place here. Your farmers wish to be merchants. The merchants dream of being nobles, and the nobles become warriors. No one is content to be who they are.”

“But it is possible to change,” I insisted. “If—”

Sten shook his head, apparently immovable on this point. “It accomplishes nothing. The farmer who buys a shop is never a merchant. He is always a farmer-turned-merchant. He carries his old life with him as a turtle carries its shell.”

I frowned, still rather unused to Sten’s moments of poetic clarity, and struggled to find a suitable response on the same level. At that moment, too, the thought of a warm shell, carried around everywhere I went, and into which I could retreat and hide, seemed rather pleasing.

“But….” I bit my lip thoughtfully. “The turtle’s shell makes him stronger.”

I looked up at the qunari, pleased with myself for my concise and sensible argument, only to find him studying me with something that might have approached curiosity. He lofted one pale brow, those vibrant eyes glimmering softly in the dimness.

“Does it? It is also his weakness. If he stumbles and falls, it pins him on his back.”

“Oh.” I deflated a bit, and my arms drooped to my sides. “I… well, yes, I suppose that’s true.”

If it had been anyone else, I’d have thought Sten looked momentarily smug.

“No.” He shook his head. “It is better to armour yourself with no more than what you need. One life, one duty.”

I said nothing. I was horribly afraid that he was right.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

Bodahn had pulled out all the stops for supper: vegetable stew with dried mushrooms and a few shreds of real beef, and bread, and a couple of skins of sweet wine. He didn’t even ask us for payment… although I did notice Levi exchanging plenty of quiet murmurs with the dwarf. I wasn’t sure exactly how deep their intentions to throw their lots in with the Grey Wardens ran—or whether it was still a current plan, given everything we’d seen at the Peak—but I suspected they’d both already sketched out plenty of potentials for profit.

Maybe they’d thought, when they found us, we’d have been a proper detachment of the order, laden with men and camp followers who needed tradesmen to keep them supplied. I almost smiled at the image as I sat down beside Wynne, lowering myself carefully to one of the three flaky, lichen-peppered bits of fallen tree that had been dragged up to the fire.

“Sore?” she asked, smiling gently at me.

I winced, and nodded. “Mm. And you? Are you all right, after…?”

Her fall. I didn’t really want to voice it, because it would sound like I was questioning her capability, and I’d always been brought up to not be rude to my elders. Anyway, I hadn’t seen the collapse itself. For all I knew, she’d just tripped. However, I _had_ seen how worried Alistair looked as he helped her to her feet. Despite all the things he did for Wynne that he seemed to think no one noticed—like carrying half her gear, or complaining about being tired, when he could see she was and yet would never have mentioned it, so that we stopped for the break she evidently needed—I doubted his concern was misplaced.

Her sharp, clear blue eyes—undimmed, even after that endless, aching, pig of a day—seemed to harden a little, though it didn’t last long, and she glanced at the fire, stretching out her hands to warm from the flames.

“I’m fine, my dear. But thank you.”

I frowned. “You, um, took quite a nasty fall.”

Bodahn was making passes with the soup pot, ladle clanging loudly, and the clatter of bowls and grumbling stomachs drowned out much opportunity I had to make myself heard.

Wynne shook her head. “It was nothing, really. I thought, for a moment… but it doesn’t matter. I’m all right.”

 _Thought what?_

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” I pressed, as the proximity of dinner began to distract my faithless flesh, suddenly much more drawn to the prospect of eating than asking questions.

Wynne flashed me a rather sharp little smile. “Thank you, dear. Your kindness certainly warms my rickety old bones.”

I shut up and ate after that, put firmly in my place.

It was no great hardship, however; we hadn’t eaten so well since the night Zevran first joined us, and broke the ice on that uncomfortable gathering with cheese and fresh bread. There is definitely something about spending several hours fighting for one’s life in an apparently inescapable fortress of death that whets, hones and otherwise transforms the appetite into an insatiable creature.

As I hunched over my bowl, manners forgotten, shovelling sodden bits of bread into my mouth with my fingers, I caught Alistair watching me from across the fire. He smiled, and I remembered that joke of his about Grey Wardens suddenly sprouting huge appetites… wolfing down dinners, gravy all over the face, and so forth.

 _Are you calling me a pig?_

I chewed, swallowed, and grinned at the memory as I looked away, letting my gaze rest in the depths of the fire. It warmed the night—colder, now, as the year turned, with the promise of blustery winds and frosts on the way—and pushed back the shadows, and I was grateful for that.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

After we’d eaten, we sat around the fire a little longer, all full-bellied and perhaps too drawn to the soothing lull of the flames to move. Leliana shivered, and peered up at the inky trees.

“Ooh, it is a dark night. You know, on nights like this, stories are often the best comfort.”

“Story!” Sandal echoed happily from his scrape beside the fire, where he was cuddled up with Maethor, the mabari busily licking every trace of stew from his hands.

Leliana smiled. “Quite so. I think it would be only right to tell a story of the Grey Wardens… but I don’t know any Fereldan ones. Only the tales of Ayesleigh, and the elven Warden, Garahel.”

I didn’t quite manage to stop myself from wincing. The Ballad of Ayesleigh was, given the current improbability of the task before us, far too depressing. Oh, heroic deaths and sacrifice were all very well, if someone was left at the end of it to make sure the final victory was established… but we were light on numbers to start with, and it was my feeling that no one needed to listen to a song about the glorious dead rising. We’d had enough walking bones for one day, and _I_ had heard enough about Garahel to last me a good few months… even if a lot of the things had been drawn out of my own head.

Probably _because_ of that, in fact.

“I have one,” Wynne said, weighing in before the bard could break out any ancient heroic epitaphs. “A story of the Grey Wardens of old.”

Leliana beamed. “You do? Oh, I would love to hear it, Wynne!”

“Story,” Sandal added encouragingly, apparently oblivious to Bodahn shushing him.

Morrigan snorted contemptuously. “You do not think we have all endured quite enough of the Grey Wardens’ hubris for one day, old woman?”

Wynne brushed her hands over her knees primly and ignored the witch, instead glancing at the rest of us assembled around the fire.

“Shall I tell it?”

“Go on, Wynne,” Leliana implored. “Please. There are so many wonderful old tales about the order. I should like very much to hear a Fereldan one.”

“Indeed,” Zevran chipped in, “we are intrigued.”

He was sprawled across a dry patch of grass in front of one of the logs, basking in the firelight like a cat. Alistair glanced at him, then briefly at me, and I smiled faintly at the sardonic look on his face.

Still, neither of us were going to interrupt Wynne if she wanted to share this particular tale, so we stayed quiet.

“Well,” she began, “I’m sure all of us recall the legends of that noble, heroic order. It was said that watching the Wardens ride in on their white griffons was enough to rouse a weary heart, and put the dance back into the step of an old man. The Grey Wardens were powerful—”

“Griffons!” Sandal erupted, clapped his hands.

Alistair grinned and shifted, stretching his legs out in the fire’s warmth. “When I was at the compound at Denerim, there were _loads_ of tapestries with griffons on. Great big ones.”

The boy’s eyes widened to saucers, and his mouth bowed around an awed ‘ooh’. I couldn’t help thinking of all the griffon motifs at the Peak, on those carved fireplaces and tattered hangings, like faded remnants of glory that held a totally different meaning from that they might once have had.

I pushed the thoughts away. They didn’t help and, anyway, if meanings could change once, they could change again. _We_ could change them.

“Griffons?” Sandal looked pleadingly at Wynne, and she smiled indulgently.

“Yes, yes… there are griffons in the story. Now, listen. The Grey Wardens were very powerful then—both respected and feared in equal measure—and yet they brought hope to the common people. This was a long time ago, when a terrible Blight had ravaged the land for many months. The armies of all the great kings had amassed for one last stand, knowing they must face the threat before them, or perish in the attempt.”

Well, this was cheery. I shifted my position slightly, the fire warming my sore knees and aching feet. All gathered around it like this, the way we were, the press of our bodies gave up an overwhelming smell of hot leather and unwashed flesh. I wondered idly where we might find some small stream or brook. There had to be at least one somewhere in the foothills and, if the Dalish were nomads, the way the stories said, then they probably planned their movements around… water.

I foundered a bit on that thought, as the realisation struck me that, with the Peak behind us, we should be focusing again on finding the Dalish. After what had happened to Zevran, I wasn’t even sure we should risking heading into the forest at all—and there _was_ Arl Eamon’s sickness to consider, and the importance of tracking Brother Genitivi before his trail turned cold—but… well, the Dalish were legendary, as much in terms of skill as their actual existence.

It was a quandary, and I didn’t really listen that closely to Wynne’s story.

“As the sun burst through the clouds that boiled and churned in the dark sky above,” she was saying, her hands spread wide as if to mimic the scene she spoke of, just as Leliana did when she told her tales, “it illuminated a vast seething horde of darkspawn, with the archdemon at its head. And it was then—when courage seemed to fail, and all lost to death and despair—that the Grey Wardens came. They arrived with the beating of wings like mighty war drums—”

“Griffons!” cried Sandal, clapping his hands.

Alistair snorted and collapsed into ill-disguised giggles.

“—and stood before the armies of men. Yes, griffons,” Wynne said, just a trifle impatiently. “Great, big, white ones, with wings as broad as a mighty tree is tall, and beaks sharp as blades. Their huge talons tore at the ground, and their fiery eyes struck fear into all who saw them. Now, hush.”

Sandal stared, wide-eyed and fascinated, his mouth hanging open.

I thought for a moment—strangely so, perhaps—of Duncan, and the symbol he’d borne on his surcoat. The griffon to me, then, was a strange beast, a thing of fantasies and nonsense. I didn’t understand what it symbolised, either at the Peak, or to the idea of the Wardens generally. In time, I would learn. I would hear old stories, and have ancient truths explained to me that made clear so many layers of things—meanings etched so deep into the years that they remained only as snatched pieces of legend, whispers of myths and tales.

The griffon, part eagle and part lion, combines the power to rise above the world of men with the strength and wisdom to protect them. It is fire and air, valour and insight, vigilance and vengeance.

At the time, I saw only Sandal’s wide, innocent eyes, and heard the stirring yet bleak words of Wynne’s story, and it seemed to me that, no matter whether they made old men dance or inspired legions of soldiers, there were probably better things in the world to be than a Grey Warden.

“Grim and fearless, the Grey Wardens marched forth, ever between the men and the encroaching darkspawn.” Wynne’s eyes shone in the firelight, and it looked as if she truly believed in the heroism she was describing… or, perhaps, that she believed _we_ needed to believe it. “They formed a shield of their own bodies and held that line until the archdemon was dead and the last darkspawn lay trampled in the dirt. And then, demanding neither reward nor recognition for their sacrifice, the Grey Wardens simply departed.”

 _Without a hot bath, a decent meal, or a new pair of boots. And_ definitely _without a nice, long rest in a proper bed…._

I bit down on those snide little thoughts. After all, legends were legends, and we were us—and legends didn’t _need_ to sleep.

Wynne sat back, her hands on her knees, and did one of those dramatic pauses that made me think she really had been learning from Leliana.

“So, what happened then?” Alistair asked, cocking his head to the side.

His voice seemed carefully neutral, and I couldn’t make out whether he was hiding conflicted reactions to the story, or just not taking it very seriously.

“Ah,” Wynne said, nodding sagely. “When the clouds finally rolled back and the sun shone full upon the blighted ground, the great kings knew that they had lost no men, and none of their blood had been spilled.”

The fire crackled, and Zevran leaned forwards to prod at the logs with a stick.Sparkspopped from the mantle of ash, and spiralled lazily upwards in the warm air, like tiny glowing stars in the night.

I frowned, not really meaning to speak aloud, though the words slipped out all the same. “Surely everybody takes losses in war? Wouldn’t—”

“I don’t think this story is about a specific battle,” Alistair said, eyeing Wynne speculatively as the flamelight painted shadows on his face, and turned his hair to dusk-smeared gold.

She smiled fondly. “Very observant. No… this is a tale about no battle the Grey Wardens have fought, and yet about them all. They have always defended us from the darkspawn, taking losses so we do not have to. People may have forgotten over the centuries, but nothing has changed. I think, especially tonight, that is something important upon which to reflect… and something that is worthy of honour.”

Morrigan scoffed, muttered something about ‘sanctimonious waffle’, and declared that she was retiring for the night.

Leliana yawned, and agreed it was getting late, but she thanked Wynne effusively for the story, and bade the rest of us a very pretty goodnight as Morrigan stalked away into the shadows.

“Come along, my boy,” Bodahn said, raising Sandal from his seat by the fire. “Best get you to bed as well.”

Sandal made the sleepy yet resentful ‘do I have to?’ face that even I recognised from my own childhood, and sloped off to bed down on the wagon.

“Goodnight,” he said, when prompted, and smiled at the recognition of receiving a handful of goodnights in return.

Maethor watched the boy go, then looked up at me and whined. I leaned over to scratch him behind the ears.

“You can’t keep him,” I said quietly. “And he can’t come with us. It’d be too dangerous.”

The hound huffed, and then licked my hand. I smiled as I stood, wiping my hand absently on my breeches.

“Soppy creature. Go on, then.”

He wagged his stumpy tail and, scrambling up on those over-sized paws, trotted off happily towards the wagon to accompany his favourite dwarf to his bedroll.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

The clouds seemed to have trailed away, like the clouds in Wynne’s tale, and the moon was bright as a silver piece and white as new linen, set into a black, smooth sky against which the stars seemed to spin in place, so strong was their light.

When I was little, Mother used to point up through the patchwork of washing lines, walls, towers and ramparts, to our ragged little swatch of alienage sky, and name the stars for me. I recalled snatches of the stories she’d attached to them—there were lovers, torn apart and waiting for their reunion in the heavens, wild chariots, and the souls of dragons and heroes, placed forever in the cold darkness—but not the stories themselves, not fully, and I mourned that loss. It felt like letting her down.

The others had all retired, or near enough, and I was by my tent, which lay furthest from the wagon, the heavy darkness of the trees closing in on my right-hand side. Familiar footfalls behind me made me turn, and I found Alistair approaching. Clad in that worn-out broadcloth shirt of his, and the breeches he wore under his armour, he looked tired and probably about as sore as I felt, if not more so.

His tent was the other side of Leliana’s, two along from mine, so I assumed he wanted to ask me something… probably about the Peak, or when we should head out in the morning, not that I’d given it any proper thought. I hadn’t really considered anything past actual sleep and much-needed rest.

“So, what did you think of Wynne’s story?”

His voice was hushed and, as he drew nearer, I could see the dark circles that had settled in under his eyes. The moonlight seemed harsher on him than it ever had before, or perhaps it just washed away the deceits of the firelight.

The fire still smouldered at the centre of the camp, banked down for the night, laden with ash and the mumble of embers. I glanced over to it as I shrugged, looking for a way around admitting I’d been unsettled by Wynne’s words.

“It was very… uh, mythic.”

Alistair smiled. “Wasn’t it? ‘We are the guardians of men, beholden to the greater good; however mighty our power, it confines us, for we must exist to serve, united by duty, lest our strength become the grip of tyranny.’”

I raised my eyebrows. “Very good. What’s that from?”

He shrugged. “Oh, some book or other. Just something Duncan said to me, not long after my Joining, about what being a Grey Warden meant. How it was a burden, yet also a blessing, if you chose to see it that way.”

“Hmm.”

At that moment, I could have felt more blessed. I understood what he meant, though, and naturally I wasn’t about to argue with any pearls of wisdom that had dropped fromDuncan’s lips.

I looked curiously at Alistair, wondering what had brought on this sudden philosophical moment, and what had motivated him to share it with me.

“You never met them all, did you?” he asked. “At Ostagar. The other Wardens.”

I shook my head. Duncan had said I would, after the battle. I’d been heartened by the look of warmth that touched his face when he said it… back when I’d thought I was going to be part of something, that I might belong.

“Well, they were quite a group,” Alistair said, with the hint of a wistful smile. “An extended family, almost, seeing as how we were all cut off from our former lives. And we… you know, we laughed more than you’d think. That sounds strange, I suppose, but—”

“No.” I shook my head. “That’s what you do with family.”

He blinked, and there was a deepness in his eyes that seemed to have been put there by more than just the moonlight.

I folded my arms across my chest. I was tired beyond all belief, but if he needed to talk, the least I could do was make it easier for him. Alistair deserved that much, plus it would mean I could turn in sooner. Anyway, he’d virtually never spoken of the other Wardens before, and I was a little curious.

“So, were there many women?”

Strange thing to ask, I thought, almost as soon as I’d said it. I supposed I was looking for traces of myself in his memories; someone I could identify with being, as if I had really belonged among the camaraderie of Ostagar. Maybe I was a bit jealous.

Alistair wrinkled his nose. “No, none. Not while I was there, at least. There were some portraits at the compound: former Wardens who were, well, female. Sort of. Very, uh… formidable. Not like— er, I mean….”

“Not like me?” I supplemented dryly.

He smirked a bit, but looked rather chastened. “Um. No.”

I snorted, though I was too aware of my own failings to be properly offended. Alistair had let slip once before how he hadn’t thought I’d survive the Joining, scrappy little slip of a thing as I’d been the first time we met. How had he put it? Armour falling off me, face all bruised… I’d been just as surprised I made it through as he had.

“All right, then,” I said, tilting my chin. “How about elves? Any elves?”

That seemed to be firmer footing. Alistair nodded dubiously.

“Well, er… yes, just one. A man named Tarimel. He kept to himself, mostly. I got the impression that his life before the Grey Wardens wasn’t particularly pleasant, but I don’t know any more than that. Thinking about it, I don’t even know where he was from,” he added, a frown passing over his brow. He blinked hurriedly. “Anyway, the point is, I… I was thinking. They were good men. I didn’t know them for long, but it was long enough to see that.”

The light fingers of a night breeze rippled through the trees, and plucked at the canvas of my tent. It rustled a little and, as I turned my head, my breath misted on the air.

That was what we had to take from Soldier’s Peak, I supposed: the fact that we _were_ all just people. All of us, capable of good and evil, right and wrong. Whatever the Wardens had turned to in the past—dark magic, the tyranny of military rule, or even the secrets that kept recruits like me green and stupid until long after our time—they _could_ be changed. And they had to be, if we were going to complete the task before us… something we had no hope of doing without the help of every ally we could get our hands on.

“You were right,” Alistair said softly. “What you said at the Peak. You weren’t just talking me down. I-I mean, you _were_ , and it really did help, but—”

He took a step towards me, then stopped abruptly, his words falling over themselves, and we both smiled with a similar kind of awkwardness.

“Thanks.” The heat of a blush began to prickle at the base of my neck, and I looked away, embarrassed.

“I mean it,” he said softly. “And… um… I mean— I wanted to thank you. And to, er—” He broke off, clearing his throat in a terribly self-conscious way, simultaneously trying to be quiet and trying to get out whatever the words were that were in danger of choking him.

I hugged my arms around my middle, rubbing a little warmth into myself, and peering at him in confusion. “What?”

A graduated wash of pink had begun to bloom on his cheeks, and was making its way up to meet with the reddening of his ears.

“I wanted to say something else, but I don’t know if it’s… I mean, if—”

Alistair bit his lip, looking baffled and bemused and, oddly, I thought, nervous. I didn’t know why that should be, and I wanted him to know he could talk to me, if he needed, or if he wanted to, but then he took a breath, and charged on with words that came out in a hushed, stumbling rush.

“If I don’t, though, if I never said— I… oh, damn.” He lifted a hand and scratched at the back of his neck. “Um, look, it… I know it probably does sound strange, considering we haven’t really known each other for very long—and m-maybe it _is_ because we’ve gone through all this together, and Maker knows I couldn’t have done it alone—but, er… I… I mean, I’ve come to, uh… to care for you. A great deal.”

He swallowed heavily and looked at his boots. A sudden, steep, and insurmountably difficult chasm of silence seemed to yawn between us. I drew in a long, soft breath, but the cold air gave me no feeling of realness or stability. Perhaps I’d heard wrong. Perhaps he hadn’t meant… what I thought he’d meant. Only, it sounded like he had, and that was impossible. I’d lost my mind, evidently, and drifted into dreams.

 _Maker, I’m supposed to say something, aren’t I?_

I opened my mouth, but he raised his head and looked at me then, imploring and hopeful. Heat washed over my face, and yet I couldn’t quite manage to look away.

“I’m, um… I’m probably fooling myself,” Alistair said, his voice low and a touch husky. “Or imagining things. That is, I know you probably— I mean, I remember what you said, about all the things that happened to you before you… well, before Duncan… um, you know. I didn’t forget about that, and I… I understand how you must, uh, think of… of… well, _men_. Human men, I mean, and….”

There was a moment of not-quite-silence, but nothing could be truly quiet while my pulse was thudding like that in my ears, and while I was so very aware of Alistair’s rapid breathing, and the sheer solidity of his presence. We were little more than a foot apart, and I could smell the leather polish and grease on him, and all those mingled scents of sweat and grime and flesh that were so very human… and yet that I barely noticed anymore.

I realised what he was talking about, and the shame washed over me in a torrent. Of all the stupid things I’d ever said, it had to be this! Those cast-off words when I told him of Shianni and Vaughan; how he’d ruined her, and how, to us, a woman allowing herself to be touched by a human, even when it wasn’t rape, wasn’t right, or proper—or clean.

 _It’s dirty to go with shems._

How had I said that? Why? Why had I been such a fool?

I bit my lip, and Alistair peered tentatively at me from under his lashes.

“I just… thought I should tell you. That’s all. I, uh, I don’t suppose you would, would you, anyway? Care about a-a human man, I mean, in that sort of—”

“I don’t think of you that way,” I blurted.

“Er… oh.”

His shoulders slumped and his face stiffened, expression shifting from apprehension to crushed embarrassment as I realised how my words sounded.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid…._

I wanted to kick myself, but the blood was rushing too hard and too fast for me to even breathe, let alone move. I swallowed, my tongue clumsy and my pulse skittering like a rat.

“I mean….” I started, but I didn’t know what to say.

If he’d just stop looking at me like that, I thought perhaps I’d have a chance, but it all felt so very impossible. All those things that had been drilled into me from my earliest years seemed distant and nebulous now. The world was different, and _I_ was different, and there was nothing to hold onto, except for hope… and the tangled shreds of guilt that were wound around me.

“I….”

I didn’t want to hurt him. And I did care, didn’t I? However much I’d tried not to admit to myself, it was true. I liked him, trusted him, admired him… but what that really meant, what it became in the seclusion of an honest heart, I was suddenly so afraid to confront.

In that moment, something inside me pitched, and all I could think of was what Father would say if he could see me now. An avalanche of terror, remorse, regret, and sadness hit me, muddled up with the absurd desire to laugh.

“I’m sorry,” Alistair murmured. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” I said quickly, looking up at him. The awkward mix of confusion and embarrassment on his face stung me badly, and I wanted to… Maker’s blood, what did I want? To comfort him? Touch him? Everything was so much more complicated. I shook my head. “It’s not that. I don’t think of you as _human_ ,” I murmured. “I think of you as _you_.”

“Oh,” he breathed. It was less a word than a soft exhalation, a murmur of hope in the darkness.

Heat crawled up the back of my neck and prickled again at my cheeks. I looked away, burying my gaze in the cool, shadow-speckled grass. The blush had me on its horns now, though I wasn’t alone. Between us, we were probably generating enough heat to outdo a bonfire.

“And I do,” I whispered, my voice barely scraping the air as I stared at the scrubby, muddy ground. “I… I care for you, Alistair. Very much.”

“Oh?”

A smile pulled at my lips as I heard the exultation and disbelief seeping through that small, single sound. I glanced shyly at him, afraid of what this new confession meant—what it would mean, when there was this great, dark threat hanging above us, and this was hardly the most sane or sensible thing to be discussing—but just looking at him made me feel a little better.

“So, you…? Really?” Alistair grinned, not so much a smile as a great crashing rush of relief and joy sweeping over his face like a tide demolishing a breakwater. “You see, I didn’t know that. But that… that is _very_ good to know.”

My smile widened too. He still looked haggard and tired under the moon’s bright glare, and we were both still grimy and unwashed, worn down with fighting and travelling, but his eyes shone and, to me, he could not have been more handsome. I let myself think it, admit it openly for the first time and even celebrate it. This man, whose opinion and friendship had come to mean so much… he cared for me. I almost wanted to mouth the words, as if that might make them real, but before I could, I realised what this shy, self-conscious smiling thing was going to become.

Alistair and I drew closer, slowly and clumsily. It was coming, I knew. And I wanted it, despite the dizziness and the dry mouth and the sweating palms and the thin, bright streak of panic collapsing in on itself like a streaming star in the darkness of my head. It was infinitesimally slow, and so awkward, both of us leaning into the other, yet neither quite making the final movement. I closed my eyes. Then, after too many long, dusty seconds, breath held and heart thudding, it was real.

Alistair’s lips were dry and rough, but gentle, as if he thought I’d break. The pressure of the kiss was light, yet it lingered: a bond as strong as steel and as weightless as air. His fingertips grazed my cheek, chasing a shiver through my flesh, and I leant into the contact, my hands clenching on the threadbare fabric of his shirt. The kiss deepened, which I don’t think either of us really expected. It just… happened, and he tasted like warm sunlight on furs, and fresh bread. When we parted, I was blushing and breathless, and I couldn’t quite stop the embarrassing trembling.

He looked shyly at me, his face an endearing mix of hazy, smug glee and tentative anxiety.

“That… that wasn’t too soon, was it?”

The air seemed to shake a little between us. I’d never wanted anyone like this—certainly no one like _him_ —and it scared me. It felt as if I was holding onto him just to stop myself from falling over, but the warmth of his proximity, his scent, made me dizzier than ever. I smiled, feeling the tendrils of this unfamiliar, yet not unpleasant, confusion unwinding lazily through me.

“Well, I-I don’t know,” I said, affecting seriousness, albeit not very hard. “I think I might need more testing to be sure.”

“Oh?” Alistair grinned, his smile washed through with relief and affection. “I’ll have to arrange that, then, won’t I?”

I didn’t leave it up to him. A gentle rock on the balls of my feet, and I pressed my mouth to his again, seeking the comfort of his acceptance… and rewarded with so much more.

“Maker’s breath,” he murmured appreciatively, his thumb gently stroking the line of my jaw as we parted once more.

The corners of his eyes crinkled a bit as he smiled at me, and if I could have blushed any more, I probably would have. I still didn’t know whether it was a good idea or not but, just maybe, there was room amid all that strife and darkness for one small light.

Somewhere high up in the trees, something moved, and an owl’s call fluttered through the branches.

We broke apart, and Alistair cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Uh….”

“I should….” I gestured vaguely over my shoulder, towards my tent, then blushed a bit more at the realisation of what I was pointing at. “Um. And, er, you should… uh.”

“Yes. Right.” He pushed his fingers through his hair and looked embarrassed. “Er, well, then. Um, goodnight.”

It was late, and cold, and yet I didn’t really want to move away from him.

I smiled. “Goodnight.”

We looked at each other for a moment that felt so very long, and the smiles widened out into soft, stifled laughter. Alistair sloped reluctantly off to his tent, and I crawled into mine, where I bunched myself up beneath the blankets, and listened to the canvas rustle in the breeze.

The air felt cold on my face, and I realised I was still smiling. I closed my eyes, and the tiredness came winding its way back. Sleep took me quickly, and it wasn’t to be an easy rest. There were dreams that night—black, heavy, painful ones, filled with the hum of darkspawn and the taunts of guilt and memories—but, in those few precious moments between waking and sleeping, life felt beautiful.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

When morning came, I woke to the quiet buzz of voices. On emerging from my tent, I found it was Levi and Bodahn, standing near the dwarf’s cart and engaged in earnest conversation. Levi was gesticulating in the air, a bright-eyed look on his face that reminded me of an over-eager ferret, and Bodahn had a small tally-stick in his hand. He kept nodding and counting notches against the thing, and an inexplicable sense of unease assailed me.

I heard Maethor bark and looked round, smiling as I saw him playing fetch with Sandal. The hound was wagging his stumpy tail so hard his entire back end was shaking, and the boy looked just as happy. I hated to think that, soon, we’d be back on the road again, and I’d have to split them up.

Well, there wasn’t much call for a merchant where we were headed, was there?

“Morning, sleepy!”

I screwed up my nose at the sound of Alistair’s voice, turning to see him in breeches and shirtsleeves with a skillet in his hand, heading towards the fire that was burning at the centre of the camp.

He grinned at me. “Breakfast? You’ll never guess what Bodahn had squirreled away. _Eggs_.”

My stomach rumbled traitorously, then my head caught up and I blinked awkwardly at him, suddenly extremely aware of the night before… and of that kiss.

Alistair evidently recalled it as well, because his ears turned slightly pink as he held my gaze, then he looked at his feet and waved the skillet aimlessly.

“Um… anyway, I-I thought you’d want breakfast, and… uh. Yes.”

“Thank you,” I said softly. “I do.”

He looked up, all big, boyish eyes and broad shoulders, and smiled, and I found myself recalling in acute detail the warmth of his arms and the taste of his lips. Had either of us been a little more experienced in the arts and games of attraction, we might have taken the opportunity to indulge in some kind of teasing, playful banter about hunger and appetites that would have made Zevran proud.

As it was, I started to blush, and so did Alistair, and then we both grinned at each other in a kind of shared, guilty, happy embarrassment.

I headed over to the fire, where most of the others were already gathered. Zevran smiled at me in such a way as to make me wonder if he’d been eavesdropping, but I dismissed it as part of his usual manner, and told myself sternly that there really were more immediate things to focus on.

Alistair cooked breakfast. Scrambled eggs and fried bread turned out to be one thing he couldn’t mess up—at least not irreparably—and he seemed very cheerful. I tried to keep my smiles to myself, and concentrated on smoothing out the wrinkles of embarrassment that still clung to me.

We ate, and everyone seemed better for the rest.

Levi and Bodahn announced their intentions to mount and equip an expedition to fully reclaim Soldier’s Peak, utilising the manpower and expertise of assorted Warden sympathisers. If the trader was to be believed, it seemed there was quite a network of people loyal to the idea of the order, and I supposed we hadDuncanto thank for that, and his role in returning the Wardens to Ferelden.

“There’s plenty of people my family knows,” Levi said. “Plenty who’s faithful to the Wardens, and ’ave been for years, not to mention those who don’t support the regent. Given a good few weeks, now them demons are gone, we can clean the place up, clear out everything salvageable from the old armoury and that, and really see about pressing the old place into service again.”

Alistair grimaced. “Do we really want to attract that much attention?”

Morrigan snorted. She seemed much improved, though she still looked paler than usual and a bit battered… but then that was true of all of us.

“Loghain will already know you are on the move. It is merely a matter of controlling how _much_ he knows.”

“Morrigan has a point,” Wynne admitted, giving the witch a sidelong look. “Word of what happened at the Circle Tower will no doubt have reached him by now, no matter how discreet Irving and Greagoir have been in pledging their support to you. Not to mention, if there is as much unrest as it seems, civil war may be inevitable.”

I frowned. I wanted to believe that was a matter for Loghain and the Bannorn, and that all we needed to worry about was the Blight, but I had the feeling it wasn’t going to be that simple.

Sten, seated to the far side of the fire like some kind of immovable monolith, made a small growl at the back of his throat. He’d been silent up until then, and I glanced curiously at him.

“If a leader loses the loyalty of the people,” he said, gazing steadily into the fire, “they will flock to whoever is _not_ him. Your cause will become theirs, whether they believe in it or not. You would do well to use that.”

“We’re not here to raise a rebellion,” I began, but even I could hear the lack of conviction in my voice.

We needed the Bannorn. We needed the network of sympathisers and supporters Levi spoke of… and we needed to use the resources we had carefully. Possibilities, odds, and chances all weighed up in my head, crowding out the little bits of room I’d left for optimism.

“Hm.” Alistair looked archly at the qunari. “That’s an interesting strategy, anyway.”

Sten shrugged, his face impassive. “It is what your kind do. They know no better. They have no certainty, know no place of their own. My people would respond differently.”

“Oh?”

“I’m sure they would,” I said hurriedly, raising my voice just enough to disrupt any potential baiting, and giving Alistair a warning glance. I meant it to be stern, but I suspected it wasn’t, and I cleared my throat. “But we don’t have the luxury of the entire antaam at our disposal. Unfortunately. And the Peak itself has stayed hidden for a long time.” I looked at Levi, rather hoping he might back me up with some practical observations. “Maybe, if you’re right, it can be brought back into use, as a staging post for people prepared to help us, if nothing else.”

“Oh, it’ll be more than that,” the trader said enthusiastically. “We already know there’s plenty there worth salvaging. You mark my words, Warden: next time you see the place, you’ll hardly recognise it!”

I forced a smile. Maybe he was right. Zevran had certainly picked up a few curios from his scavenging—enough baubles and saleable trinkets to convince anyone the Peak was worth further investigation, now it was safe to do so. He’d struck a deal with Bodahn on a couple of silver goblets that I knew about… there was probably a lot more secreted away that I didn’t know of, but I wasn’t going to pry.

A fat, curved piece of branch Leliana had been using earlier to coax the fire into life lay at my feet. I picked it up, and gazed thoughtfully at the mottled stripes of colour on the bark, and how they faded down into the blackened tip. My fingers traced the rough patches of lichen and aged wood.

“Maybe, when we pass back by Lake Calenhad, we can send word to the Magi. They have scholars and, if they can spare them, they can make a start on those libraries. That, and make sure everything’s… properly dealt with,” I said vaguely, not really wanting to revisit the practicalities of demons and foul magic.

“Much appreciated.” Levi nodded, his expression turning a little sombre. “That’s what Duncan thought, you know. All the knowledge the Wardens had back then; all that culture and history, what had to be brought back…. ‘We are but temp’ry keepers of our wisdom,’ he said to me.” He shook his head. “I’m glad you fulfilled his promise.”

A faintly awkward silence fell, and for a moment it almost felt as if man’s ghost itself was whispering around the edges of the camp.

I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry we can’t stay to see the work start on the Peak. And… thank you. Thank you both,” I added, glancing at Bodahn. “We didn’t know there were already people out there ready to listen to Grey Wardens.”

“Oh, we are. We are indeed,” the dwarf said suavely, giving me a big smile from behind his beard.

A little way away, Sandal was off again, playing happily with Maethor. I returned Bodahn’s smile, though I still wasn’t sure whether his involvement was more to do with profit or politics.

I weighted the bit of branch in my hand, and prodded at the fire. It was a nice morning, with golden light streaming into the clearing, picking at the mica in the hillsides, and making the tufts of grass on them into delicate cobwebs that wafted gently in the breeze. Against the brightness, the flames seemed diaphanous, like they didn’t really belong.

Leliana shifted, stretching out her long, leather-clad legs. Apart from during our trip into Denerim—which I would rather have forgotten completely, had I been able to—she hadn’t changed back into her Chantry robes since Redcliffe, and yet she still managed to look unmistakeably feminine. Now, the sunlight caught on the red of her hair, and made a dozen different colours glimmer in it. She wrinkled her nose, those clear blue eyes narrowed against the sun as she squinted at me.

“So… what happens now?”

I shrugged, and gave the fire another, rather more savage poke. “We have two choices, I guess. We try to find the Dalish, or give them up as a lost cause and start back towards Redcliffe and Lake Calenhad. There’s the good brother to follow up on still.”

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “It will take, what, at least another two or three weeks to get back to Redcliffe, no?”

Alistair exhaled uneasily. “I hope Arl Eamon’s no worse. I don’t like this whole Brother-Genitivi-being-missing business. If we could just have _found_ him, then—”

“We would already know he is nothing more than a fool intent on chasing after the bones of a madwoman,” Morrigan drawled, her voice sharp and hard, “and he will be of no use to your dying arl.”

“He’s not dying!” Alistair snapped. “They said… the mages said… magical healing can sustain him. It’s just—”

 _Not enough to bring him back._ He didn’t say it, and fell to scowling at the fire instead. I suspected, like me, part of him didn’t believe we’d find the brother, and the whole exercise was simply a political one; shoring up the support we would need to extract from either Isolde or Teagan—depending on who took control of Eamon’s estates, as regent _or_ successor—with the balm of having at least tried to help the arl.

Or perhaps Alistair didn’t think that at all. Maybe all his thoughts were for his guardian, the man for whom he still had all that loyalty and affection. I wasn’t sure, and it didn’t help to be so suddenly reminded of the ties Alistair had to… well, to the Guerrins and more.

 _A human, and not just any human. Son of a king, and raised in a castle… what_ do _you get yourself into, girl?_

“He will be well cared for,” Wynne said smoothly. “You know that, Alistair. Even if the healing cannot continue indefinitely.”

His scowl deepened, the edges of it scored with discomfort. “Maybe we should turn and head for the lake, then?” He raised his head, casting a glance around the group for support before he looked at me. “I mean, if Genitivi’s missing, we have to follow up on his trail before it goes cold, right?”

I suppressed a smile. _That_ train of thought was familiar… and yet it was also mired in a little bit of annoyance. I coughed gently.

“The Dalish will be moving too. And we’re already within a couple of days of the pass. If we don’t try to find them now, chances are we won’t find them at all.”

Alistair frowned. “Yes, but—”

“We need allies, don’t we?” I raised my brows, trying hard not to think of this as another moment when the needs of some human nobleman—even one potentially on his deathbed—were put above my people. “I say we give it a shot. Just a day, maybe two, to find some trace of them in the forest. We know they _were_ here, and recently… but if there’s nothing, then they’ve probably already moved on. But we won’t know until we look.”

Alistair opened his mouth, probably already framing an argument, but he didn’t push the point. He just shrugged, albeit with rather poor grace.

“Fine.”

“Does anyone disagree, then?” I asked, glancing around at my assembled companions. “Any other ideas?”

Wynne shook her head. “An admirable plan… although I wonder if your timing might not be a tad optimistic.”

“Wynne has a point,” Leliana added. “The Brecilian Forest is enormous. Not to mention the legends that—”

“Ooh! Ooh!” Alistair held his hands up, palms out. “Don’t tell me! Horrific battles, death, mayhem and occult destruction, with a side order of demonic pandemonium. Am I getting warm?”

“Not to mention the trees,” Zevran added dryly, flexing the arm that had been so badly injured and, though now largely healed, did still bear a thin, white scar. “With the groping and the rending? Really, it was like being back in a cheap Nevarran tavern.”

I smiled, despite myself, and shook my head. Zevran caught my eye, and gave me a disarmingly suave smile.

“Nevertheless, if it is what you desire, fair Warden, I shall run headlong into the branches of death.”

“We can only hope,” Morrigan muttered.

“Thank you.” Ignoring her, I nodded at Zev, and then turned my attention to Sten. “What’s your opinion, Sten?”

Those unsettlingly bright violet eyes surveyed me critically.

“It is a matter of weighing gain against risk. I have heard stories of the Dalish elves. There are no better archers among humans, no warriors more vicious and skilled. Secure their help and, should they provide sufficient numbers, you may have less chance of failing quite so spectacularly.”

I grinned widely. “Then I’m taking that as a vote of confidence. Thank you.”

The qunari’s face remained as impassive as ever, though the breath he exhaled was eloquent.

“You may take it however it pleases you.”

So, there we had it. A slightly ragged consensus, but it was enough.

We would, we decided, spent a few more hours at rest before pulling up camp, bidding our farewells to Levi, Bodahn and Sandal, and heading north to the pass that led into the neck of the Brecilian Forest. Alistair—though clearly still not quite at one with my decision—unfurled the map, and there was some checking of distances and discussion of potential routes. The majority of it passed over my head, though I could at least distinguish the part of the map that marked out the forest.

It was a huge, sprawling thing, like an ink stain, but cut through with dozens of little ragged lines that I supposed were meant to represent the trees. There seemed to be no indications of terrain or landmarks. Just ‘here be forest’, which wasn’t comforting.

Still, a grain of excitement bloomed in me. I thought of the arrowhead Wynne had found: real, tangible, recent evidence of the Dalish. Wild elves…. They had never been anything more than stories to me, but oh, such wonderful stories! All those tales of Arlathan and Halamshiral, of the Emerald Knights, and our beautiful, immortal ancestors.

When, a little aftermidday, we shouldered our gear and began to head for the road, I couldn’t deny I was eager to see where the journey took us.

Perhaps I was naïve enough to believe in stories. Perhaps I was simply optimistic.

Either way, I had no idea what would lay ahead.


End file.
